


One for Sorrow

by thedarkpoet



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Blood, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Clover, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Ironwood owns a farm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Team RWBY are also trying their best, The Ace Ops are trying their best, They have weapons but the weapons don't have guns in them, fairgameweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkpoet/pseuds/thedarkpoet
Summary: Clover enjoys his days on Ironwood Farm; his work is simple and his days are brightened by the occasional gift from an avian visitor. But when his peaceful life is threatened, Clover will have to decide who he can trust to keep his new family safe.Big thanks toalphaparrotanddelta_altairfor reading and providing feedback on this work.
Relationships: Ace Ops & Clover Ebi, Clover Ebi & James Ironwood, James Ironwood & Ace Ops, Qrow Branwen & Team RWBY, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 54
Kudos: 160





	1. One for Sorrow

Clover knew the bird wasn’t really his: certainly not any more so than any of the other creatures that visited the rolling fields of Ironwood Farm. Most of them were there to steal what they could, like the flocks of sparrows that settled on the freshly strewn seeds during spring planting, or the badger that emerged nightly from its sett under the bridge to dig up the potatoes. But Clover liked to think of the crow as being his particularly. True, it flocked with the others when they perched in the wheat, but it always found Clover after they’d been scared off the crop, dropping some shiny trinket into his hair. Clover kept them on the windowsill of his cottage, his collection of strange and tiny treasures: a few glittering links of chain-mail, water-softened chunks of coloured glass, a tiny piece of mother-of-pearl, and a coin from a kingdom Clover had never even heard of.

Harriet mocked him for keeping them, and whenever the crow delivered a new one, she’d laugh and tell the others that Clover’s best friend had arrived.Clover would laugh with the rest of the farmhands, but as the seasons passed and the bird kept returning, he found himself carrying bread to offer it.

“Ironwood is not going to like you feeding him,” Vine pointed out one late summer day, his lanky legs dangling on either side of the branch he’d perched upon to eat his lunch. The tree was one of the few spots of shade in the fields, allowed to grow only because the grassy ditch in which it rooted was wet and swampy in the spring.

“How do you know it’s a him?” Clover asked, yanking his hand back as the crow made an opportunistic grab for the rest of the roll.

Like most of his motions, Vine’s shrugs were slow and languid. “You will stand up to Elm or Harriet, but you always let Marrow have his way.”

Clover gave up on having any of his roll to himself, and the crow devoured it as if he hadn’t been snacking on the last of the barley all morning.

“I stand up to you,” Clover objected. “I stand up to Ironwood.”

Vine looked skeptical. “You like this bird more than you like me.”

“And you never stand up to Ironwood!” Harriet’s voice was indignant as she scrambled down the bank behind Clover. “Even though that’s the third time this week he’s had me run letters to the castle.”

“Harriet, you are the fastest,” Clover pointed out. She flopped down beside him, blowing her bleached cowlick out of her eyes.

“At this rate, Marrow’s going to beat my record for the harvest, and he’s not even trying.” Harriet held out a finger for the bird, who hopped closer and pecked at in inquisitively. “What’s today’s gift from the bird, then?”

“He didn’t bring anything,” Clover said, and Harriet’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, in the doghouse, are we?”

“You’re just jealous.” Clover grinned and rolled away as Harriet took a half-hearted swipe at ruffling his hair. “Jealous he has important bird business to attend to.”

“Like destroying the barley crop?” Vine asked.

“Like keeping crow secrets,” Clover said firmly.

“Oh, your bird friend is here!” Marrow slid into the ditch feet first, and the crow squawked indignantly, taking to the sky in a flurry of black feathers.Marrow’s long tail drooped in disappointment, but it was only a moment before it was back to wagging full force. “I finished the back field!”

“I thought Elm was helping you,” Harriet said, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Ironwood called her back to the house. He said I should round you up as soon as I finished. So, consider yourselves rounded, I guess.”

Harriet smacked her face into her hands. “But if you did the back field alone-”

Marrow grinned. “Why yes Harriet, you can indeed purchase for me the ale of my choice from the fine Pallium Inn and Tavern. I should really thank Ironwood, there’s no way I would have beaten you if he hadn’t had you fetching and carrying for him the past few weeks.”

Harriet growled in frustration and shot to her feet. “Race me back to the house Marrow, double or nothing.”

“You haven’t got a chance,” he laughed, and then the two of them were off, sprinting along the tracks that wound between the fields towards the main farmhouse. Vine swung down from the tree, and he and Clover followed more sedately, the noonday sun beating down on their heads. They were late enough in the season that the mornings had been cool, but Clover was glad to see a bit of summer hanging on. Winters in Atlas were hard and long, even as far south as Ironwood Farm. The sunny weather was pleasant, even if it reminded Clover of his childhood in Mistral. Strange that a place that held so many bad memories could be so easily evoked by the lazy smell of freshly threshed hay and the brush of hot wind across his shoulders. Clover turned his face up to the sun, focusing on the sound of Vine’s quiet footsteps beside him. The years on Ironwood Farm had been good to him; he put the past back in the box where it belonged, where it couldn’t sully the present.

By the time he and Vine reached the house, Marrow had already disappeared inside, and Harriet was leaning against the doorframe with a sour expression on her sweaty face.

“I let him win,” she snapped, before either of them could say anything. “Kid’s gotta feel like he’s doing something right.”

“Of course,” Vine said courteously. “If you could just let us pass?”

“I let him win,” Harriet repeated, but she turned and led the way into the dim interior of the house. They made their way to the kitchen, where Elm and Marrow were already seated at the large table where the farmhands shared their meals. Clover took his usual spot nearest the potbellied iron stove and shoved his chair back to prop his feet up on the log pile. Marrow was eagerly recounting how he’d vaulted over several fences to keep his lead on Harriet, who scowled as she dropped into her chair next to the window. Vine seated himself next to her, and steepled his hands on the table as Elm mostly failed to feign interest. After two years of working the farm together, they were all used to Marrow’s stories taking longer to recount than the events that inspired them.

Just as Marrow was describing the final dash to the house, the door at the far end of the kitchen swept open to admit Farmer Ironwood, and Marrow stumbled to a halt.

As he’d often been in the past few weeks, Clover was struck by how tired the farmer looked. The grey hair at his temples seemed more pronounced, and the shadows under his eyes had deepened as summer drew to a close. The war in the south was weighing heavily on them all.

“Thank you for gathering so quickly,” Ironwood said, settling heavily into his chair at the head of the table. “I’m afraid the wizard has sent more news.”

Clover pulled his feet off the woodpile. This felt like the sort of conversation he’d need to be fully upright for.

“Before I begin,” Ironwood continued, “I wanted to thank you, Harriet, for taking those letters to the castle. The wizard and I engaged in some negotiations, and I think we’ve found an acceptable compromise, at least for now.”

Harriet’s face was uncharacteristically solemn as she nodded, her hands twisting together on the table. Marrow reached out to still them, leaving his hand resting on top of Harriet’s.

“I’m afraid the witch’s army has taken Mantle,” Ironwood said. “And now that the capital has fallen, the wizard’s scouts have seen Grimm soldiers as far north as Pallium. The wizard has opened his doors to allow the townsfolk to take shelter in the keep.”

Clover worked hard to keep his expression controlled, but Elm and Marrow exchanged looks of horror. Ironwood passed a hand over his face before continuing.

“That is where I want to send all of you,” he said finally. “But the wizard is adamant that we need to finish the harvest before the rest of the Grimm army continues north, or we will have no chance in a siege. However, I was able to convince him that I didn’t need all of you, so if any of you wish to go-”

“You know I’ll stay here, sir,” Clover said immediately. He didn’t want to give the others too much time to waver. He knew how much the farm meant to Ironwood, how much of his life was tied up in this land.

“Thank you, Clover,” Ironwood said. “Still, I want it known I will not hold it against any of you who wish to take shelter in the castle. The wizard,” he continued, his voice twisting on the word, “is convinced that Ironwood Farm is too far off the main road to draw the attention of an army in unfamiliar territory, but I am not so sure.”

Ironwood paused, the only sound in the breathless room the wind chimes hanging in the window behind Harriet. Vine looked as implacable as always, but he’d allowed his fingers to knit together. Next to him, Elm had the table in a white-knuckled grip and looked prepared to throw it, as if the enemy was already at their door.

“I suppose we’ll have to take those down,” Ironwood said, gazing at the wind chimes. “And the dinner bell. We’ll have to rely on Marrow’s stomach to let us know when to eat.”

Marrow laughed weakly, but it sounded terribly hollow.

“We’ll all stay,” Harriet said, recovering herself at last. “But are we just meant to wait until the army’s knocking at our door?”

“The wizard has promised to send soldiers to defend us,” Ironwood said. “They’ll arrive tomorrow morning. In the meantime, we’ll try to clear as much of the land as we can. The second the last field is harvested we’ll make our way for the castle.”

Looking at Ironwood’s fearless face, Clover could almost believe they’d make it to the end of the harvest. But Pallium was only a week’s walk away, and they had a season’s worth of work ahead of them. The army would be pushing hard, trying to reach the castle before winter set in. Clover had seen desperate soldiers before. He’d seen how little they left behind. When they dispersed to return to work, it was in solemn silence.

Even Marrow couldn’t find anything to talk about around the dinner table that night. They’d worked themselves to exhaustion, even through the hottest part of the afternoon usually reserved for indoor tasks, and the job before them felt insurmountable even to Clover. He pulled out some cards after dinner to lighten the mood, but it had been a long time since Clover had been able to convince anyone to play with him. One by one, the farmhands left for their cottages, until only Clover and Ironwood remained. The fire in the potbellied stove had burned low, and the cool night air carried the scents of the herb garden through the window. Clover tipped his chair back onto two legs, trying to keep his mind here in Ironwood’s kitchen instead of letting it wander back to Mistral.

“You think the wizard is going to lose this war,” Clover said.

“I think he won’t be able to hold the castle,” Ironwood said. “And I admit I am afraid of what lengths he will go to to defend it.”

“We’ll do what it takes.” Clover dealt the cards onto the table, listening to the thwap of paper on wood. “You know I can help, if it comes down to a fight.”

“He wants us to burn the farm.” Ironwood’s voice was still steady, but Clover had known the man a long time, and he could hear the undercurrent of despair. “After the harvest is sent to the castle, he wants us to slaughter the remaining animals and burn every building to the ground. He thinks it’s our best hope of keeping them from outlasting us in a siege.”

There was something thick and hot and angry in Clover’s throat; Ironwood Farm had been his home ever since Ironwood himself had found him in Mistral five years ago. No matter how far he ran, the war always caught up with him.

“Don’t tell the others yet,” Ironwood said heavily. “Today was hard enough. I’ve half a mind to send Elm and Marrow to the castle anyway, they’re too young to be caught up in this.”

For a dizzying moment, Clover imagined the farm empty and burned, his cottage reduced to rubble. He imagined just how scared the wizard must be to take away any hope of easy recovery after the war was over. The sudden exhaustion he felt had nothing to do with the hour.

“Don’t send them away,” he said. “Ironwood Farm is the last place any of us have to come back to. Don’t force them to abandon it.”

Ironwood nodded, standing slowly.

“You’d better turn in,” he said. “We’ll have plenty to do tomorrow.”

Clover didn’t want to try and sleep, but he wouldn’t keep Ironwood from his bed. He walked through the dark and silent farmhouse, keeping a tight leash on his thoughts. When he reached his cottage, he locked the door for the first time in four years and stood by the window, running his fingers over his treasures and watching the southern horizon for any sign of the army marching north.


	2. Two For Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two, but they're not joyful.

Clover rose with the sun. If he’d slept at all, it hadn’t been restful. But the fields outside his window looked the same, so he could at least lay to rest the fear that the farm had somehow been overtaken in the night. Clover’s cottage was furthest from the main house, so he had an unobstructed view across the misty south fields to the Emerald Forest beyond. In between the white limbs of the birch trees, he could see the roosting crows, black shadows darkening the canopy of the forest. As he watched, something spurred them into sudden motion, and they rose in a roiling cloud, creating a cacophony of unhappy sound. He followed the motion until the last of the crows had vanished back into the trees: until there was no longer any excuse to delay starting his day.

As he stepped through his front door, he saw Harriet leaning against the wooden slats of her own cottage, smirking at him.

“You have a very impatient visitor,” she said. Before Clover could ask what she meant, something small and oblong and heavy thunked off the top of his head and landed in the dirt by his feet. Rubbing where it had struck, he bent down and found it was a cloak pin about an inch across, decorated with the image of a four leaf clover. 

“What-” There was a squawk behind him. His crow was perched on the edge of the thatched roof of his cottage, scrutinizing him with one beady eye. Clover looked down at the cloak pin again - it was larger and heavier than anything the crow had given him before. The bird must have been attracted to the shiny green enamel of the clover leaves, but the suitability of the gift was a little uncanny. 

“I don’t have any food to trade for it,” he told the crow. The bird hopped off the edge of the roof and glided down to peck at Clover’s boots. Having delivered his prize, the crow seemed utterly disinterested in the pin, even when it glinted as Clover pinned it to the collar of his tunic. The heavy metal dragged the thin cotton away from his throat, and he could hear Harriet laughing at him, but he put on his best business-as-usual smile. 

“I could definitely use a good luck charm,” he said amiably. The bird stared up at him, then launched into indignant flight when Harriet stepped too close.

“What is it this time?” she demanded, grabbing for his tunic. Clover batted her hand away, striding purposefully towards the main house and breakfast.

“Harriet, had I known you planned to court me, I would have made myself much more available for wooing.”

Harriet darted past him, waving to Elm as she emerged from her cottage. “You wouldn’t be able to keep up with me, lover boy.”

“So just Marrow for you then?”

“He certainly outpaces you through dinner,” Elm agreed, slinging her arm over Harriet’s shoulders as she joined them on the path.

Harriet subsided into discontented grumbling, and Clover made the mistake of thinking he was safe enough to flick the trailing curl of her cowlick out of her eyes. Quick as a flash, Harriet darted out a hand and snatched at the cloak pin. Upon seeing the design, her pink eyes widened, and she dropped the pin like a hot coal.

“This is a clover,” she said.

“I noticed,” Clover replied, stepping around her.

“Clover!” she yelped. “Elm, the bird knows his name!”

“I’ve always said he was smart,” Clover said. 

“It’s good for Clover to have a friend, little rabbit, do not take this from him.”

“What if it belongs to her?” Harriet demanded. “What if it’s one the witch’s creatures?”

“He’s a bird, Harriet, he likes shiny things.”

“Makes sense he is attracted to Clover’s charming smile, ah?” Elm elbowed Harriet’s ribs good-naturedly, but she was not mollified. Clover pasted a teasing expression over the uncertainty suddenly curling in his gut.

“What reason would the witch have to send one of her creatures here?” he asked. “Are you hiding a battalion of soldiers in your cottage, Harriet?

“Who knows why she does anything?” Harriet spat. “That bird always paid too much attention to you - maybe you’re the one hiding things.”

Elm laughed. “Clover could not hide a black cat at night. He is too honest.”

“Besides, as already established, he’s attracted to my gleaming smile,” Clover said, grinning as authentically as he could manage.

Harriet was still clearly unconvinced, casting suspicious glances skyward as the three of them stepped inside the farmhouse, where the honey scent of Marrow’s special porridge filled the halls. Clover found himself running his thumb over the smooth enamel of the pin. It was clearly well crafted, in spite of the narrow gouge that marred two of the lacquered leaves. He wondered where it had come from, and whether it had brought its previous owner any luck. They could certainly use the extra.

Between Harriet’s discontent and Clover’s contemplation, breakfast was another silent affair. Just as Clover was scraping the last of the thick porridge from his bowl, Ironwood stumped down the stairs, looking tired and drawn in the early morning light. 

“Clover, I’ll need you at the house today,” he said quietly. “I’ll leave it to the rest of you to tackle the north fields.”

By the time Clover had washed up the breakfast dishes, Ironwood had seated himself near the stove and was gazing through the window at the path that wound to the house from the main road. Clover found himself doing the same, still hunting for any sign of an army on the march.

“I have something for you,” Ironwood said, rising slowly from his chair. He crossed to the cabinet where they kept the kitchen linens, rooting through the folded cloth until there was grinding metallic sound and the wooden shelves swung forward to reveal a heavy iron door. Ironwood pulled a matching key from his pocket and slid it into the heavy padlock above the handle. With a low groan, the door scraped across the stone floor, to reveal a narrow iron-lined closet.

If you’d put it to Clover before this moment, he would have sworn on the brother gods that he knew the layout of the farmhouse better than his childhood home. There simply hadn’t been space for another room, tucked away as this one was, underneath the stairs. And yet here it was, low and cramped, but undeniably an opening to a part of Ironwood Farm that Clover hadn’t known about.

Ironwood emerged from the closet holding a longsword in a leather scabbard, the dark steel of the pommel engraved with a crested bird in flight. That engraving was as familiar to Clover as the scars across his knuckles, and seeing the sword resting on Ironwood’s kitchen table awakened a terrible fear in him. He couldn’t suppress a shiver as he reached for it. The wire-wrapped grip felt foreign in his hand, but when he drew the blade he could see the edge was as keen as it had been the day he had put it down, and the letters etched into the blade were still free of tarnish.

“It is a wonderful weapon,” Ironwood said, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. 

“Kingfisher was certainly effective,” Clover replied, trying to keep his voice light. “I never thought I’d see it again.”

“I had hoped I would never need to ask you to use it. But I do not know what soldiers the wizard is sending; I trust you, Clover.”

Clover wanted to hide his blade back in Ironwood’s secret closet, to return to a time when he hadn’t known Ironwood had kept it. How could he keep the past contained if he had to carry a piece of it at his side? But Ironwood was watching him expectantly, so he sheathed Kingfisher and belted it to his waist with familiar motions. Just as he was fastening the final buckle, there was a knock at the back door. He put a hand to the hilt as Ironwood shoved the closet closed, concealing the iron door behind the innocuous shelving once more. As he was closing the cabinet doors, there was another knock, and a blond head appeared in the window.

“Are you going to let us in or not?” The owner of the voice couldn’t have been more than twenty, and her lilac eyes glittering with mirth as she stared the two of them down.

“Yeah, let us in, we’ve been walking since before sunrise!” Another teenage girl appeared in the window, younger than the first, her pale skin a stark contrast to her dark auburn hair.

Clover was pleased to see the slight widening of Ironwood’s eyes that indicated he was as dumbfounded as Clover felt. At Ironwood’s nod, he crossed to the back door and pushed it open.

There were not two teens, but four; in addition to the two in the window, a girl with a shiny black bob and twitching catlike ears had seated herself on the porch swing, while the fourth was picking leaves out of her long white braid with an expression of deep disdain.

“Are you in need of assistance?” Ironwood asked, following Clover out onto the back porch.

“We’re your assistance,” the auburn-haired girl said. “Ruby Rose, at your service!” When Ironwood continued to frown, she added tentatively, “The wizard sent us?”

“You are the protection Ozpin promised me?”

“I am aware we seem quite young.” The girl with the braid had finally finished cleaning it of leaf matter, and extended a her hand to shake. “But as a Schnee, I can promise you we are more than qualified.”

Her hand was small and cold when Clover shook it after Ironwood, and her icy blue eyes were piercing.

“Aw, give it a rest, Weiss,” the blonde said. “Farmer Ironwood, we’re here to help. I’m Yang Xiao Long, and this is Blake Belladonna.” The girl seated on the porch swing gave a small wave before continuing her scan of the fields.

Ruby Rose seemed to feel it was her responsibility to reassure Ironwood of their prowess.

“It’s not just us,” she said earnestly. “My uncle’s going to help too.” As she spoke, she seemed to realize someone was missing. She turned toward the thicket that abutted the eastern side of the house, cupped her hands around her mouth, and bellowed, “Uncle Qrow!”

Clover winced at her volume, and he could see the twitch in Ironwood’s shoulders that meant he wanted to do the same. But as the echoes of the girl’s shout died away, a lanky man stumbled out of the brush, cursing his cloak when it snagged on the thorny branches. His dark hair was shot through with grey, and even when he disentangled his cloak, there was permanent slouch to his shoulders that seemed more an affectation than the consequence of the huge greatsword strapped across his back.

“Kid, we talked about volume control,” he said, dragging his hand through his hair. “These forests could be crawling with the witch’s forces.”

As he lifted his chin, Clover gave a start of surprise; his eyes were red, as red as those of the Grimm soldiers. He caught Clover staring and smirked.

“Ironwood,” he nodded. “Oz didn’t say you already had your own toy soldier.”

“Qrow. I had thought Ozpin had you scouting the capital.” Ironwood paused, but the other man just continued smiling his strained smile. “It’s good to see you,” Ironwood said firmly. “Clover, this is Huntsman Qrow Branwen. Qrow, this is Clover Ebi. I’ve been teaching him as best I can, but he’s a better farmhand than a swordsman.”

Clover couldn’t see much point in lying about his skill; if he needed to defend his home, he wasn’t going to play the naive greenhorn and risk defeat. Still, in the years he’d known him, Ironwood hadn’t lead him astray, so he did his best to display the slightly stunned expression the new recruits had always worn the first time they got to hold an edged blade. 

When Branwen reached out a hand, Clover was expecting another handshake, but the huntsman grabbed his wrist, turning his palm up. Before Clover could pull it free, Branwen snorted dismissively. “Farmboy callouses. Half the new militia has the same ones. Probably be as much use as your toy soldier here.” 

“Then I’m thankful you’re here to protect us,” Clover said. His friendly tone seemed to rattle the huntsman, who let go of Clover’s hand as if it burned.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered, stalking past Clover into the farmhouse.

The blonde girl sighed, exchanging a long suffering glance with Ruby Rose as the two of them followed Ironwood inside. As Clover directed the remaining girls to the kitchen, he was careful to let his scabbard knock awkwardly on the doorframe. It was strange to see the four of them seated there, bright spots of colour against the warm wooden browns of the panelled walls. Yang Xiao Long’s yellow hair nearly glowed when she took Harriet’s chair in front of the window, Blake Belladonna a quiet shadow at her side. Weiss Schnee had taken Clover’s chair by the stove, fingers drumming on the table and her spine ramrod straight, but it was Ruby Rose who took charge of the conversation, asking Ironwood where and how the farm could be best defended.

They seemed far too young to Clover, but that meant they were also too young to remember a time before the war. Perhaps that made them better soldiers. Clover didn’t interrupt their tactical analysis of the farm’s strengths and weaknesses in the event of an attack, but he was surprised to see that Branwen didn’t either. The huntsman worked his way through one of the leftover bowls of porridge with a single-minded focus, and didn’t seem to notice Clover observing him, even when he realized he’d been staring. There was something familiar about the other man’s sharp features, but Clover couldn’t place him. And those red eyes; Clover felt a ripple of unease in his gut. 

The huntsman straightened as abruptly as if he'd heard Clover's thoughts, dropping his empty bowl on the sideboard. 

"I'll scout the perimeter," he said, interrupting the debate about how best to ship the harvest to the castle. 

"An excellent idea," Ironwood agreed. "Clover can show you around."

"I think I can handle it, Jimmy." 

"It'll be faster with someone who knows the land," Ironwood said firmly. Branwen looked sour at this pronouncement, but he didn't object further when Clover followed him from the kitchen. Clover even managed to refrain from comment when Branwen immediately took a wrong turn deeper into the house. When they emerged into the sunlight, Clover took them onto the track that meandered around the fields. To the north, he could see the others working, and had to fight back the instinctive wince at the talking to he was going to get from Harriet for shirking the harvest, Ironwood's instructions or no. Branwen gave the forest surrounding the farm the same unimpressed look he'd been levelling at everything since his arrival. 

"I can manage on my own, no matter what James thinks," he said, his red eyes trained on the trees. 

"I'm sure you're quite capable," Clover said amenably. As before, his easy acquiescence seemed to startle the huntsman, who cast him an aggrieved look before stalking toward the forest. Clover ambled after him, watching as Branwen tested the strength of the fence.

“It’s not exactly a fortress,” Clover admitted. “That’s why we need you.”

“Hmm,” Branwen grunted. “The girls will take care of you. They’re much stronger than they look.”

“And you?” 

Branwen snorted, and despite Clover’s further forays into conversation, he was silent for the rest of their circuit of the farm.


	3. Three For A Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have updated! Curate your reading experience accordingly, and please let me know if there were any tags I missed. I’m happy to add more.

After three days of working with the wizard’s soldiers, Clover could tell he was being watched. He didn’t strictly speaking object to the attention; he was proud of how the work he did for Ironwood Farm showed on his body, and it warmed him when people noticed.

But Branwen’s staring wasn’t like the flirty glances Clover received when he delivered crops to market in Pallium (he’d never do that again, he supposed). Branwen watched him like he was waiting for Clover to do something, and Clover didn’t know what he was expecting. Clover found himself avoiding wherever the huntsman was stationed, eating early to dodge sharing the table at meals. His hasty consumption wasn’t just for show; they were all working hard enough to be ravenous at mealtimes, and Clover was finding that after five years of farmwork, his clumsiness with Kingfisher didn’t need to be entirely acted. He and Ironwood had staged training sessions every evening since the soldiers arrived, and he found himself gripping the sword far too tightly, the hilt sweaty in his hands. Holding Kingfisher invoked memories he couldn’t easily suppress, and his dreams had been unsettling. 

The training sessions were one place he couldn’t avoid Branwen’s eyes; he could sense them on his back even as he went through the rudimentary block and counter-strike combination that he and Ironwood were allegedly practicing. The heat of day lingered, though the sun had dipped low into the trees. Clover was sweating as he stepped around Ironwood’s swing, careful to lean in too close for his block. Ironwood pushed against his guard with his steel blade, and Clover allowed himself to stumble to one knee, letting Kingfisher fall from his hand.

“You almost had it!” Yang cheered from the porch swing. Ironwood hauled Clover to his feet, as close to amused as Clover had seen him in the last month.

“Your stance is all wrong,” Weiss said bossily. “Your feet are far too close together.” She stood and brushed the creases out of her shift-like white dress, marching down the porch steps until she could use her cold little hands to straighten Clover’s shoulders. With one foot, she nudged Clover’s work boots apart until they settled in line with his shoulders.

“You’re going easy on him, Jimmy.” Branwen was reclining against one of the large boulders that lined the path to Ironwood Farm, a clay bottle of Vine’s honey mead dangling from one hand.

“Perhaps he needs an example?”Ironwood asked, raising his sword toward Branwen.

“Nah,” the huntsman swung to his feet. “Need a refill.”

“Please, show me how it’s done,” Clover said. Pretending poor swordsmanship was more tiring than any drill would have been.

Branwen stopped in the middle of the training square Ironwood had marked out between the farmhouse and the toolshed, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, drawing his greatsword.

Clover moved to step aside, but instead of charging Ironwood, Branwen swung for Clover’s head. With reflexes he didn’t know he still had, Clover wrenched Kingfisher into position to block. This close, Clover could watch Branwen’s eyes widen in surprise before he pulled back, his massive sword moving smoothly into another strike toward Clover’s now unprotected right side. 

If Clover had thought feigning a lack of skill with Ironwood had been difficult, hiding his abilities from Branwen was nearly impossible. The huntsman was fast; even if Clover hadn’t been holding back, he wasn’t confident he would have been able to land a hit. When Clover failed to deflect a strike, Branwen pushed into his space, wielding his greatsword with surprising delicacy. If Clover tried to flub his footwork, Branwen pressed his advantage, using the superior reach of his weapon to bat Kingfisher aside. 

Their spectators were silent, for which Clover was grateful. Branwen wasn’t pulling punches, and it was all he could do to keep diving out of reach of the huntsman’s sword without retaliating. At last, when Clover could dodge no further without hitting the toolshed, he dropped Kingfisher in surrender and forced a laugh.

“I’m no match for a huntsman,” he said ruefully. Branwen wasn’t smiling.

“You’re a natural,” he said. “But Ironwood should have taught you; never let go of your weapon.” Without another word, he slung his sword over one shoulder and slouched into the house, scooping up his mead bottle as he went.

Irritated with himself for feeling chastened by the hunstman, Clover picked up Kingfisher, wiping the blade on the hem of his tunic with exaggerated caution. Ironwood was still standing with his sword readied to intervene, but he lowered it with military precision and nodded to Clover as he followed Branwen inside. Weiss was clearly disappointed in Clover’s inability to absorb her instructions in posture, and she trapped him into drilling until well after sundown. By the time he’d cleaned Kingfisher to her exacting satisfaction and extricated himself at last, he’d almost managed to forget the lifeless expression Branwen had worn while they’d fought. He lingered in front of the basin in the small watercloset the farmhands shared, staring at himself down in the chip of mirror Vine used to shave. He hadn’t noticed before, but the green of his eyes was a close match to the clover on the crow’s pin. He found that fact strangely reassuring as he prepared for bed, and once his head hit the pillow, he fell into his first peaceful sleep in three days.

The next day dawned thickly overcast, the grey clouds hanging low over the Emerald Forest. Clover scanned the trees, but his avian visitor had vanished with the rest of the flock. He tucked the slightly stale bread roll he’d been carrying back into his pocket and made for the main house. Breakfast was even quicker than usual; the farmhands had been taking it in turns to drive wagonloads of harvested crop to the wizard’s castle, and this morning was Clover’s turn. He made sure to eat well; when Marrow had returned from his shift yesterday he’d barely made it into the cool shade of the porch before collapsing spread eagle on the deck. Like the rushed harvest as a whole, it was a lot of work, and it had to be done quickly.

As usual, Harriet gave plenty of unsolicited advice about the Ash River ford, her mouth full of porridge as she came to wave him off with the wagonload they’d filled the previous night. Blake, Clover’s escort, provided actual assistance as she helped him stretch an oilcloth over the bags of grain and crates of tomatoes. Elm led over Hamsfa and Greta, two of their dairy cows, and they stamped anxiously, whites showing around their liquid brown eyes. Ironwood had convinced the wizard to take in some of the animals, but Clover didn’t relish coaxing them across the ford with only a teenage girl to help. As Elm soothed the cows, Clover harnessed Maggie to the wagon. The cantankerous mule clearly felt she’d been overworked, and got a good bite in on Clover’s forearm before she consented to be appeased with the better part of a fresh head of cabbage.

When at last they were ready to go, the clouds had only gotten darker, and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. Clover waved off Elm’s offer of another oilcloth to cover his head, smiling when she tucked it into the wagon anyway. He bundled another of his sleeveless tunics under the oilcloth to keep dry and embraced the cooling sensation of the rain on his bare arms. He had just settled onto the driver’s bench next to Blake when Huntsman Branwen emerged from the forest, looking as if he’d been dragged backwards through a bush. He stalked over to the wagon, shedding leaves as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Scram, kid,” the huntsman said, as Blake cocked an eyebrow in his direction. “I’ve got to get to Oz.”

“Danger to the farm I should know about?” Clover asked. Branwen blinked, as if he had just noticed Clover on the wagon.

“Something big is coming,” Branwen said cryptically. “The wizard needs to know as soon as possible.”

“And you don’t think we also need to know?”

“I thought you were just a farmhand,” Branwen snapped. “Or is Ironwood also training you to be a tactical genius?”

If Clover had been feeling more charitable, the tremor in Branwen’s hands might have earned the huntsman some sympathy.

“Must be something pretty serious,” Blake said quietly. “Have you told Ironwood?”

“I can’t,” Branwen said emphatically. “Which is why I’d like to get moving.”

Clover wanted to protest, but Blake nodded sharply. “I’ll stay with the wagon, you can go on ahead to the castle.”

“If Oz found out we left the farm undefended I’ll never hear the end of it,” Branwen said, exasperated. “And I won’t make better time in all this, anyway.” The rain was pelting down now, flattening his hair to his head.

Blake looked unconvinced, but surrendered her spot on the bench to the huntsman, who took it with ill grace. Now that Clover was closer, he could see deep shadows under Branwen’s red eyes, the grey pallor of his cheeks. For a single selfish moment, he thought about refusing to move until Branwen shared what he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it in the face of the huntsman’s obvious fear.

The forest closed around them, the reaching branches overhead softening the torrent of rain to a trickle. The normal symphony of animal sounds was silent; Maggie pulled the wagon with nary and irritated grunt, and even the cows seemed content to plod along in placid silence. 

Branwen wolfed down most of the bread and cheese Clover had brought for lunch, then took a long pull from his silver flask. His constant motion made it impossible for Clover to find the distant contemplation he usually managed on the drive to the castle. The huntsman was endlessly fidgety, constantly adjusting the angle of his greatsword on his back as his red eyes darted between the tree trunks.

“Not at home in the forest?” Clover asked. For a brief moment he had the full weight of Branwen’s anxious attention, but then the huntsman was back to scanning the branches overhead.

“Not exactly,” he said. “I spend far too much time in the Emerald Wood.”

“You prefer a city then?”

That startled a laugh from Branwen.

“Harriet will be pleased I’ve learned how to tell a joke at last,” Clover said.

“No,” Branwen said, “I - you don’t know who I am, do you?”

“I’m a country boy,” Clover said, spreading his hands and letting the reins drape over his knuckles. “Are you one of the war heroes?”

Branwen laughed again and Clover found himself more than a little frustrated by the bitter edge to it.

“I’m whatever the opposite of a war hero is,” Branwen said. “I’m what you send after the war heroes are done.”

He pulled his flask from his pocket, and Clover got a whiff of honey mead as he took a swig.

“You really don’t know who I am,” Branwen continued. “I thought everyone in Atlas knew.”

“I’m not from Atlas,” Clover said carefully. He could never be quite sure how Atlesians would react to that particular pronouncement.

Again, those red eyes on his face, boring into him with frightening intensity.

“No,” Branwen agreed. “I should have noticed before.”

“I don’t see how you could have,” Clover replied, but Branwen brushed the comment aside.

“You’re a Vale refugee, then?”

“Mistral, actually.” Clover found it wasn’t as difficult to admit as it usually was, somehow, although saying it aloud made it feel like Kingfisher was burning on his hip. He rubbed his clover pin, letting his thumbnail slot into the gouge. Filled his thoughts with green. Carefully didn’t look at the huntsman.

Fortunately, Branwen seemed as uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation as Clover felt. “That’s- uh. Nice pin.” 

“A gift.” Clover let himself smile, banishing the past. “From a dedicated friend.”

“Seems you have a lot of those.” Whether it was the conversation or exhaustion, Branwen had given up scanning the trees, his eyes trained on the road ahead. 

“Lucky me,” Clover said. “Lucky Farmer Ironwood was willing to take me on.”

“Jimmy’s a soft touch,” Branwen said. “All that stiff formality just melts; he’s weaker than a new lamb when someone’s in need.”

Clover laughed. “I certainly was that. I’m glad we all found Ironwood Farm.” He wished suddenly that he’d stood his ground with Branwen before they’d left, demanded to know what was coming. But the fear in Branwen’s eyes; Clover was only just keeping afloat in an ocean of his past. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more. He didn’t push his luck.

They didn’t stop for lunch; hardly any of it was left anyway. The road was starting to become mired with mud, the rain growing heavier. Clover’s tunic was sticking like a second skin, and Branwen’s normally unruly dark hair was plastered to his head. It had taken them a better part of a day, but they were nearly at the castle; another hour and the keep would be visible over the trees. All that remained was to cross the ford.

They heard the Ash River before they saw it; a morning of steady rain had swelled the normally tranquil river over its banks. The trees nearest the edge were skirted with rushing brown water. Clover considered the flow: the water was higher than usual, but the current looked to be manageable.

“I need you to stay here with the wagon,” he said to Branwen. “Once I get the cows across, I’ll come back for you and Maggie.” 

Branwen was eyeing the river with trepidation - it was the most uncertain Clover had yet seen him.

“Maybe I’d better go on ahead, scout the far bank for danger.”

Clover considered; it wasn’t a bad idea.

“I’ll show you where to step,” he said. Branwen was a little unsteady on his feet, and one misstep on a mossy stone nearly had him slipping downstream, but he recovered with practiced ease and and disappeared into the thicket on the far side. When he returned, he gave a curt wave that Clover took to be an all-clear. 

The cows weren’t willing to be coaxed; when Clover brought Hamsfa to the river’s edge, she planted her hooves and her eyes rolled in terror. He could try and muscle her across, but the cows would go easier once they saw another pass through the danger. Stalwart Maggie showed them how it was done, making the crossing without even seeming to notice the river around her knobbly knees. The wagon bounced over the smooth river stones, but the trip didn’t even disturb the oilcloth. Hamsfa allowed herself to be led reluctantly, nearly ripping her head free of Clover’s grip with her first step into the water but gentling once they reached the other side.

When Clover returned for the final ford, Greta was grumbling her distress at being abandoned. He stroked her forehead to soothe her, but she wouldn’t be calmed, stamping her feet in agitation. 

“Get a move on,” Branwen called. Maggie was nibbling on his sleeve, and Clover found himself grinning at the sight.

It was at that moment that the Grimm soldiers struck.

Their dark uniforms had been invisible in the rainy shadows of the trees. They swarmed out onto the muddy path, surrounding Clover and Greta, who groaned piteously. Clover managed to dodge the first few strikes and draw Kingfisher, letting his instincts take over even as he heard Branwen shouting from the far bank. He knew right away there were too many of them to fight off on his own, but if he could keep them occupied, perhaps Branwen could make some distance with the cart. Maggie was braying shrilly as he counted heads; at least a dozen, maybe more he couldn’t see in the trees. Six had surrounded him, while the rest were yanking on Greta’s lead to pull her off the path. That was the last Clover saw of her before his assailants closed in. 

With nowhere to retreat he let Kingfisher sing, blocking each ringing blow more quickly than the last. But it was a pace he couldn’t maintain, and as he stepped back to avoid a jab from one of the soldiers, another blade skimmed across his ribs, opening a line of fire in his side. His knee buckled, his boot sinking into the sucking mud. He regained his footing and managed to twist to parry the next thrust, steadfastly ignoring the burning sensation radiating into his chest. But the soldier could see he was unstable, and she leaned in close, trying to break through his guard.

And her eyes.

Her eyes were like those of all of the witch’s forces; red and opaque. No pupil or iris or white to them, just thick crimson red, and Clover could see himself reflected in them. He was trapped in her eyes, drowning in red, and the world around him faded away. There was nothing in Clover but an eternity of red. He didn’t feel the rain on his face, or the pain in his side. He didn’t see the soldier’s fierce grin as she drew back to strike again.

The sharp shock of pain when her sword pierced Clover’s shoulder was enough to puncture the red, at least for the moment, and he came gasping to the surface. He could still see the soldier’s flat red eyes, but the life had gone out of them. As he watched, her head slowly tipped down, pulling her crimson gaze to the greatsword that had split through her sternum.

It registered, distantly, that Kingfisher was still in his hand, but at some point he’d dropped to his knees in the mud. Clover got to his feet, slowly, readied his blade. But the soldiers that had surrounded him were scattered at his feet like monstrous black petals, their eyes closed in death. Greta lay on her side in the road, her chest heaving but apparently unhurt.

The soldier in front of him crumpled as the greatsword withdrew, her own blade splashing into the mud as she collapsed. And behind her was Huntsman Branwen, who reached out a hand to Clover that froze when Clover twitched away. The world was coming back in force; Clover’s heart was thumping in his ears, beating in time with the pulsing pain from his shoulder. He looked over - red, red, red - and sucked in a deep breath through his nose.

Branwen opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a squeal from across the river. More soldiers were pouring out of the woods on the far bank, dragging on Maggie’s reins in an effort to pull the mule away. Clover pulled in another breath, steadying his grip on Kingfisher. Even before he made to step into the water, he knew he wasn’t going to make it in time to save the wagon; he couldn’t even guess how Branwen had made the crossing so fast. The soldiers were forming a barricade of bodies to cut them off, advancing ankle deep into the river. 

“Whatever happens,” Branwen said, his voice nearly inaudible over the rushing water. “Don’t think less of me.”

Before Clover could ask what he meant, there was a whipcrack of leather from the other side of the river and then Maggie was running wild, ploughing through several of the soldiers in her headlong charge across the ford. The wagon from which she’d been freed was rolling back toward the water, but none of the soldiers had gone to stop it. They had other problems.

Someone else had emerged from the forest. Someone willing to fight Grimm soldiers. 

Clover splashed forward. The line of soldiers had been distracted by the fight boiling up behind them, and he was able to slide through. He kept one bloody hand on his pin, though it threatened his balance, made him a little less graceful with his sword. He needed the tether to the present, or the red would pull him under again. He dispatched two of the soldiers on his way to the wagon, could hear the swing of Branwen’s greatsword at his back. And then the mass of dark uniforms parted to reveal a girl.

The copper blades she held were green with age, but she wielded them with brutal efficiency. Her red hair whirled around her as her short swords moved with blurring speed, shearing through the inferior weapons of the Grimm soldiers. The rain and mud didn’t seem to touch her; she moved so quickly that she seemed to hover above the ground. Clover kept his distance; even without the blood dripping from his shoulder, he would not be able to keep up with her flurry of blows. He managed to get the wagon at his back, fending off attackers with his good arm as Branwen mowed down soliders in a messy brawl in the river. 

The rain was getting heavier - it became difficult to see his opponents, let alone his allies. The oilcloth in the wagon popped free, its loose end flapping in the wind. The cooling water, so refreshing after days of summer heat, had Clover shivering as he pushed another soldier to the ground. His finger were starting to go numb, and he began lashing out with his feet until finally, finally, there was no soldier to replace the one he had felled.

“Ebi, help me with this godsforesaken creature,” Branwen’s voice called from somewhere in the downpour. Clover tried to move toward the sound, and suddenly found that the wagon was the only thing keeping him upright. He took a staggering step and crumpled to the ground. He couldn’t feel the arm that hung below his injured shoulder, but his ribs were burning. There was something hot climbing up the back of his throat and he gagged into the puddle of blood around his feet.

“Are you alright?” The red haired girl had sheathed her twin swords and was looking at him curiously. For a dizzying moment, Clover thought she was a giant, then remembered he was on his knees. He hadn’t meant to be, and tried to get to his feet. He made it halfway up before he needed to lean on the wagon. He was so cold.

“I’m fine,” he managed.

“I hope you don’t mind that I helped,” the girl said earnestly. “My father says I’m not to bother people on the road, but you looked like you needed assistance.”

“Yes,” Clover agreed, and let himself slide slowly into the mud. They’d been fighting so long it was starting to get dark. It wasn’t far to the castle, but Clover felt exhausted. Maybe he and Branwen could camp under the spare oilcloth and continue in the morning.

“Ebi!” Branwen’s aggrieved shout was punctuated by irritated braying.

“I think he needs help, mister!” the girl said brightly. Her hair was so red, but it was a nice red. Marigold’s hair had been just that colour.

“Ebi.” Branwen’s voice was suddenly much closer, and Clover lifted his head with effort. The huntsman’s eyes were a nice red too - he wasn’t sure how he’d ever mistaken them for Grimm. Clover thought he still might be able to drown in them.

“S’not my name,” Clover said, his tongue heavy. Someone was shaking him, and part of knew he should be getting up. But the darkness was swiftly encroaching from every direction; surely that was reason enough to rest.

“Clover,” someone said. Even with a strident note of concern, they had a lovely soft voice. Clover wanted to tell them so, but words had become terribly difficult.

He let his eyes slip closed and surrendered to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qrow: “Jimmy, how do I show Clover I think he’s cool?”
> 
> Ironwood: “Have you tried telling him?”
> 
> Qrow: “Seems fake - I’m gonna fight him.”


	4. Four for a Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clover is king of the castle

When Clover awoke, his mouth was parched. It tasted like something had died on his tongue. 

He’d definitely been asleep, but he didn’t feel rested at all. Worse still, his cottage was flooded with light, which meant he must have overslept. Why hadn’t anyone woken him up?

And who was snoring?

Clover opened his eyes.

He wasn’t in his cottage. He was in a semicircular stone room, in a bed double the size of his own and heaped with soft pillows. He was wearing unfamiliar clothing; a long charcoal grey night shirt and a soft pair of cotton trousers in the same colour. An emerald coverlet was folded over his feet, and a thick rag rug softened the stone floor. Sunlight streamed in through a window filled with actual glass and hung with finely woven green curtains. Both the window and a heavy wooden door were set deep in the thick stone wall. Next to the door was an intricately carved desk, and seated in the chair before it was a snoring Huntsman Branwen. His ragged cloak was wrapped around him like a blanket, and he had a splotch of black ink on his cheek.

Clover stared as Branwen’s mouth fell open and he let out another ratcheting snore. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here. He didn’t know where here even was.

He made to sit up and was stopped by a stinging pain in his right shoulder. There was a wad of white bandages under the embroidered sleeve of the nightshirt, and another band of cloth was tight over his ribs. He sat up with more caution and swung his bare feet out of the bed. 

There was no sign of his clothes or Kingfisher, though Branwen’s greatsword sat on the desk among the crumpled scraps of parchment. 

With the sight of the weapon, the events of the previous day began to return: the attack at the ford, the Grimm soldier who had stabbed him, and the girl who had saved the wagon. But his memories after meeting her were a haze of grey that refused to clear.

Clover walked slowly to the window, favouring his right side. The glass was too thick to see anything but the vaguest outlines of what lay beyond. But he could tell he was somewhere fairly high up; the green of the forest canopy stretched out to the horizon. He snuck a look at Branwen to confirm the other man still slept and pushed open the window, careful not to disturb the empty bottles lining the sill. 

It took Clover a moment to reconcile what he was seeing; he’d only ever viewed the keep from the courtyard below. And yet that was where he must be, within the wizard’s castle. He was four or five storeys up, and could see the trees of the Emerald Forest pressing up against the thick stone of the castle fortifications. From this angle, the stables and storehouses beneath the tower clumped awkwardly to the castle walls. Scattered between the outbuildings was a collection of tents and ramshackle lean-to, the gaps between them hung with drying laundry. What little space remained was claimed by sparring soldiers in the wizard's green and gold. As Clover watched, a ginger-haired woman wielding a warhammer circled a young man with double daggers. They were evenly matched: though the woman’s strikes were fearsome, the man she fought was wickedly fast, dodging away from her heavy blows. It was like watching someone try to swat a fly with a sledgehammer. 

Just as it seemed the woman might finally get in a hit, the door to the chamber opened. Branwen startled awake, nearly tipping out of the chair as he reached for his greatsword.

"It's just me, Qrow, don't skewer me." A blonde young man in white robes backed through the door and placed the tray he was carrying on the desk. 

“Maybe try knocking, sunshine,” Branwen said irritably.

“My hands were full,” the man protested. He turned away from the desk and spotted Clover at the window. “Oh, you’re awake!”

Branwen whirled around, but whatever expression he’d been wearing was wiped clean by the time Clover could get a clear look at his face. 

“Of course he’s awake,” Branwen muttered. “You barged in here yelling the place down.”

“I’d woken up before you came in,” Clover said, hoping to forestall any further bickering. His throat felt like someone had scraped it dry.

“You should still be in bed,” the young man said. “Qrow, you told me you’d keep an eye on him.”

Branwen’s ears flushed red and he mumbled something about reports for the wizard, but the young man hadn’t waited for his response. 

“Mr. Ebi, my name is Jaune,” he said. “I just came to check on your bandages.”

Clover allowed himself to be led to the bed, and had begun to remove his nightshirt before Jaune seemed to remember something and paused in his preparation of the new bandages.

“Qrow, you should leave.”

“This is my room!” Branwen said, outraged.

“It still will be even if you’re not in it,” Jaune pointed out. “I have to, um, protect my patient’s modesty.”

Branwen’s cheeks reddened under the ink stain. He scooped up his sword and several pieces of parchment and left the room with haste, although he closed the door gently enough. He hadn’t once looked at Clover directly. At the farm, his gaze had been inescapable; Clover tried not to think about what that meant as he pulled off the nightshirt.

“I’m sorry about your clothes,” Jaune said. “By the time you got here, we had to cut them off.”

Clover couldn’t help tensing a little as Jaune approached him. The last time he’d had been near any kind of physician had been when Vine had needed a rotten tooth pulled, and the other man had screamed bloody murder the whole time. Before that had been the battlefield surgeons, and while they’d tried their best, those that entered their tents rarely remerged. But Jaune’s hands were gentle as he checked the dressings, and Clover was surprised to see the cut across his ribs was nearly healed.

“How-” his dry throat got the better of him, and he coughed. “How long have I been here?”

Jaune seemed to catch his meaning as he poured Clover a cup of water from the pitcher on his tray.

“Only since last night,” he said. “I -uh. I used magic to speed your healing.”

For someone in possession of such a remarkable power, he seemed surprisingly sheepish about it. He peeled back the bandages on Clover’s shoulder. The wound there was still deep, but had also closed significantly.

“I was a little too late to this one,” Jaune said. “I think it’s going to scar.” He glanced at the other scars that littered Clover’s chest and gave a nervous chuckle. “I guess being a farmhand is more dangerous than I thought.”

“I wasn’t always a farmhand,” Clover replied as Jaune rewrapped his shoulder. “But it was lucky I had Hunstman Branwen with me last night.”

“Huntsm- Oh, you mean Qrow!” Jaune laughed. “Did he really introduce himself as Hunstman Branwen? I’ve never heard anyone call him that.”

Clover hadn’t either, really; only Ironwood had referred to the huntsman that way. Branwen certainly didn’t seem the type to stand on ceremony. And the name Qrow suited him, with his angular looks and his feathery dark hair. The thought of the huntsman’s face was distracting, and Clover made an effort to stay focused as Jaune rummaged under the bed, emerging with a pile of grey cloth.

“I think you’re well enough to see the wizard. We’re going to have to go down through the Viridian Hall though, so you’d better get dressed,” he said, dropping the clothing on the bed. “Qrow said you should borrow his things. You’re about the same height; I think they’ll just about fit.” 

They did not just about fit; Qrow was slimmer than Clover, and had a penchant for tailored shirts that wouldn’t accommodate Clover’s biceps, let alone the dressing for his injured shoulder. In the end they improvised, ripping the sleeves off one of the oldest shirts and buttoning it up as far as it would go. Clover felt a pang as the fine cloth tore; someone had worked very hard on the garment they were destroying. He managed the trousers on his own, much to Jaune’s relief. The young man was waiting on the landing when Clover emerged from the sunny bedroom, fully clothed at last. 

“Sorry about all the stairs,” Jaune said, as they made their way down the winding steps. “Qrow insisted on getting you out of the infirmary, but I don’t think he thought about how you’d get back down.”

“I’m not so old as all that,” Clover replied, determined not to consider how he’d gotten up the stairs in the first place. At least he had a good distraction: he couldn’t deny that the pain in his shoulder was making it difficult to catch his breath, and they stopped often. 

The upper reaches of the tower had been all but deserted, but there was a flood of activity as they descended, people rushing in and out of the rooms that lined the stairs. Talk of the war was on every tongue. As they waited for Clover’s breathing to steady, a pair of middle-aged women in the same robes Jaune wore bustled by, tallying bandage supplies on their fingers. A group of green-clad pages trotted past them and on down the stairs, calling their fellows to training in voices that echoed off the stone walls until someone below them snapped an order for silence. Everyone seemed too busy to notice Clover panting on the landing in a ruined shirt, for which he was grateful.

When he was ready, he and Jaune continued slowly, following a brace of pikebearers who had emerged from what appeared to be an armoury. They held the tips of their long weapons carefully before them to avoid accident in the close quarters of the stairwell, and their leisurely pace left Clover with enough energy for conversation.

“I haven’t thanked you for healing me,” he said as they passed another landing.

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” Jaune said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just want to help people.”

“Well I’m very glad you were there to help me,” Clover replied. “How did you find out you had such an incredible gift?”

He’d expected the answer to be a happy story of discovery, but Jaune was suddenly being very careful to watch his step.

“The wizard checks all new recruits for useful talents,” he said. “I had no idea I could do magic. I needed a lot of training.”

“I imagine anyone would,” Clover said, trying to figure out where the conversation had gone wrong.

“I should have known,” Jaune said. “I could have-”

They came to an abrupt halt - the pikebearers had paused to allow a stream of archers to clatter up the stairs, and Clover and Jaune pressed themselves to the wall to let them pass. The archers were singing, some song about striking out the eye of a dragon. Clover hoped their aim was better than their ability to keep tune. By the time the reverberation of their atonal chorus had faded, Jaune’s expression was amiable once again.

“I’m not very good yet,” he said apologetically, “or I would have been able to fully heal you. But I only have a few months of training, not years like Qrow.”

Clover pulled up short, and tried to play it off as a sudden twinge in his shoulder.

“Hunts- Qrow can do magic?” 

Jaune didn’t seem to have noticed his surprise. “The wizard always says if he could just convince Qrow to teach, the rest of us would learn a lot faster.”

“He has a gift for healing?”

“Oh, I’ve never seen what he can do,” Jaune said. “But it must be really useful - he was the first person the wizard ever trained.”

Clover pondered this as they navigated the final set of steps into the Viridian Hall. He'd have been hard pressed to do much else; the clamor of voices they’d been hearing had swelled to a cacophony as they descended. It seemed everyone in the castle must be gathered in this hall: the pages they'd seen earlier were darting between groups of off-duty soldiers, and a cluster of village matriarchs were holding gossipy court in the grand arch that opened to the yard beyond. Families of townsfolk gathered around the massive central hearth, where a large iron kettle whistled in the coals. The last time Clover had seen so many people all at once had been in Mistral, but the atmosphere in the hall couldn't have been more different than the sodden military encampment. Although the narrow stone columns and high ceiling lent the chamber a dignified air, the bright green and yellow pennants hung from the wooden rafters and the chatter of voices gave the overpowering feeling of a festival.

Jaune led the way with confidence, weaving through the crowd with ease. By greetings he received, he was clearly well known, and in his wake, Clover got a few curious glances. He put on his most disarming smile and got a few surprised grins in return as they navigated to a clear path along the edge of the hall. The chambers that lined the main gallery must have once served many purposes, but the glimpses Clover caught were of rooms nearly uniformly gutted of their original furnishings, their stone floors laid with dozens of straw pallets. As they neared the far end of the hall, they passed by what must be the infirmary, the most orderly room by far, its rows of crisply made white beds bathed in sunshine. A faunus woman with the whippet tail of an opossum beckoned to Jaune inside, but he waved her off as they continued on.

He led Clover to an imposing set of wooden doors at the back of the hall and helped him push one open. 

“I’d better get back to Pearl,” he said apologetically. “But he’s just through here. Um. Good luck.”

It was quiet and shadowy in the windowless corridor beyond the door. The walls were hung with heavy tapestries, embroidered with leaves and mechanical gears stitched in green and gold. They muffled the echoes of Clover’s footsteps as he strode forward across the flagstones. As he approached the door on the far side of the room, Clover felt an unusual sense of trepidation: in his visits to the castle, he had never directly encountered the wizard. The man had an aura of myth about him that wasn’t even dispelled when his description was filtered through Ironwood’s practical nature. That itself spoke to the wizard's power; though Ironwood was only a farmer now, he wouldn’t have given his fealty to anyone he didn’t believe in. But magic had always been a mystery to Clover, even when it affected his own body. He wasn’t sure he’d notice if the wizard cast a spell.

He’d paused outside the door, left hand hovering over the iron ring. There were words carved into the lintel above the door: No fear of time’s steady march. Clover decided to take heart from that and pulled the door open.

The room beyond was as dim as the hallway that preceded it, the only furnishing a grand throne carved from dark wood. Flickering torches were set high on the walls, where they burned with emerald fire, their faint light doing little to illuminate the chamber. Clover peered into the gloom that shrouded the throne, but it was empty. 

He wasn’t alone, however. As he entered, the sound of crackling flames filled the unnatural hush that always followed an abruptly ended conversation. Qrow Branwen stood in the middle of the room, his hands jammed into his pockets. A dark-haired woman was leaning into his space, her expression accusatory. As she turned to glare at Clover, he saw she had the same narrow chin and sharp cheekbones as Qrow, but there was an anger in her vivid red eyes he hadn’t seen in the huntsman’s, not even in the midst of battle.

“This is why you were late?” she asked, looking at Clover disbelievingly. “I needed you in Mantle!”

“I did my own scouting, Raven,” Qrow growled. 

“And took your sweet time reporting in!” The woman - Raven - jabbed a finger into Qrow’s chest. She was shorter than him, but her formidable demeanour more than made up the difference in their heights. “I’m trying to keep my eyes on everything and you decided to go flitting off to Ironwood, who isn’t even helping-”

Clover took a step forward to intervene, but drew to a sudden halt when brilliant emerald light flared behind the throne. As he blinked the spots from his eyes, he saw that the shadows there had coalesced into the shape of the man, extending fifteen feet up the stone wall and limned in blazing green flames.

“Enough.” The dark figure spoke in a voice that resounded in the confines of the empty chamber. There was some sort of distortion to it; Clover couldn’t discern anything about the speaker. As the echoes died away, Raven and Qrow took up positions flanking the throne, backlit by green.

“Welcome, Mr. Ebi,” the voice continued. It was almost overpoweringly loud, but Clover kept his back as straight as his injured shoulder would allow. This must be the wizard; even Clover could sense the magical energy in the room.

“It’s an honour to meet you,” Clover said. Was he supposed to bow? He nodded his head toward the throne and winced as the motion jostled his bandages.

“The honour is mine,” the wizard said, softening his voice to a tolerable volume. The flames around him softened with it, fading from green to yellow. “Thank you for your bravery. I called you here to learn some of the details of yesterday’s attack.”

Clover glanced at Qrow, but the huntsman avoided his gaze.

“I’m happy to help if I can, but I’m not sure what else I can add,” he said. “I’m sure Huntsman Branwen has told you everything I could.”

“I am most interested in how the attack began,” the wizard replied. “How many assailants did you face?”

“At least a dozen, maybe more. The rain made it hard to tell, and I wasn’t able to see the attackers on the other side of the river.” He was working hard to quash the surreal feeling that came with talking to a shadow. On either side of the throne, Qrow and Raven seemed entirely unperturbed, so he assumed this was a fairly common occurrence. The wizard must be otherwise engaged, too busy to debrief a farmhand in person. 

“You kept a remarkably cool head, to make such a count.”

“I-“ Clover wasn’t sure how much Qrow had seen. “I wasn’t prepared for a real battle, sir. I froze.”

“He fought well,” Qrow said quietly, still refusing to meet Clover’s eyes. Clover wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Where did your attackers come from?”

“I didn’t see,” Clover confessed. “They’d been lying in wait in the woods, waiting for us to try crossing the ford.” 

“And did you notice anything unusual about the soldiers?”

Clover’s stomach clenched. Of course the wizard would know.

“I didn’t get a good look at them,” he offered. “Maybe some of them were conscripts.” His voice sounded false to his own ears: Ironwood would have heard the insincerity in an instant. But the wizard didn't comment; it seemed even his myriad powers couldn’t grant him any additional insight into human nature.

“The rumours you may have heard are true. The witch has the power to coerce anyone, human or beast, into doing her dark work. ”

“That’s terrible,” Clover said, but he knew his tone wasn’t sufficiently surprised when Raven shot him a suspicious look. “They were only soldiers,” he said, trying not to sound too desperate. 

“Mr. Ebi.” Clover knew he was not imagining the emphasis the wizard placed on his surname. “Farmer Ironwood has told me a lot about you.” As he spoke, the flames around the shadowy figure flared blue.

“Only good things, I hope.” Clover attempted to keep his tone light. It felt like there was a knot in his chest, and only the pain his shoulder kept him from rubbing at it.

“Ironwood says he trusts you,” the wizard said, and the distortion in his voice grew stronger as the light around his shadowy form brightened. “But you understand why I cannot let you leave. The kind of corruption you faced does not easily fade.”

Though the room had felt cavernous when he first entered, it seemed to Clover that the walls were closing in.

“Ironwood needs me at the farm,” Clover said, taking a step towards the throne.

“Ironwood will understand that you have been injured, and must remain here for your recovery.”

“I have to go home.” Clover took another step forward. Raven put a hand to the hilt of the long blade on her belt, but Qrow was determinedly focused on the carved arm of the throne. He had a chance.

“Mr. Ebi, this is for your own safety,” the wizard said, and as the echoes of his words died away, Clover charged the throne.

They knew he was injured - they weren’t expecting him to be fast. Clearly Ironwood hadn’t told them everything; they didn’t know how much experience he’d had fighting through pain. And Clover was going to fight. He was not going to remain here in the castle while his home was in danger.

Before Raven could draw her blade, Clover sprang towards Qrow, who hadn't been prepared for action and struggled to extricate his greatsword from the tangle of his cloak. Clover feinted right toward the throne then dodged left, hugging the wall to slide past the huntsman. Qrow gave up on his sword and reached out a hand, and how had Clover forgotten how quick he was? But just as Qrow's hand would have closed around Clover’s shoulder, the other man pulled up short and Clover's momentum carried him behind the throne. 

What he saw there was enough to cause him to stumble. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find, but it certainly wasn’t a wide-eyed boy surrounded by metal contraptions. As he skidded to a halt, the boy flinched back, knocking off one of the shallow metal bowls that sat on the high table before him. The bowl clattered to the ground, its powdery contents puffing over the boy and settled in the fire at his back, which blazed to sudden purple brightness. Out of the corner of his eye, Clover saw the shadow on the wall behind him roil and shrink as the boy jumped away from the flames.

In the next instant, Raven had rounded the throne and levelled her slender red sword at Clover’s chest. He raised his good arm in surrender. He’d expected to find some sort of magical artifact, or a portal to the wizard’s true location. He wasn’t about to attack a child. 

“Oscar.” Qrow’s voice came from behind Clover.

“I’m alright,” the boy said. Though his voice carried a hint of the wizard’s intonation, it was otherwise entirely ordinary. His striking hazel eyes were very bright in his purple-dusted face, well matched to the gold trim and green brocade of his fine coat.

“Tie him up, Qrow,” Raven said, her blade unwavering.

“Raven-”

“That won’t be necessary,” the boy broke in. “Mr. Ebi is going to go quietly.” After his initial surprise, he had settled into calm confidence that didn’t seem to be entirely prompted by Raven’s protection. There was something unnaturally mature about his manner, and Clover suddenly wondered if this form might be a disguise to throw off any one who wished the wizard harm.

“You can’t keep me here,” Clover said.

“We all do what we have to. I just happen to have more power than most.” The boy seemed suddenly tired, but he met Clover’s eyes for his final pronouncement. “I cannot allow you to leave the castle. Qrow will escort you to your room.”

And Clover found, in the face of Qrow’s twisted expression, that he would go quietly after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So with the publication of this chapter I have realized that I can reply?? to comments??
> 
> Sorry to everyone I've left in limbo - I really appreciate all the feedback I've gotten on this fic, thank you so much for reading! Hope you continue to enjoy :)


	5. Five for Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I did not mean to make this chapter 5k words but it turns out when you lock your chapter naming scheme to an old magpie rhyme it can really mess up with your pacing.

It was the nicest prison Clover had ever been in. 

That it was a prison was indisputable. Though the furnishings were far nicer than those in his cottage, the barred window and heavy lock on the door allowed no ambiguity about the purpose of the room. 

Clover knew from experience that constant motion would only heighten his restlessness, but he couldn’t keep from pacing, covering the room from end to end in just three large strides before swinging around to repeat the motion. His shoulder throbbed in time with his steps, the pain giving him something to focus on besides his confinement. Even in the winter, much of his work was done outside. He’d never handled cramped spaces well.

He wanted his own clothes. Wearing Branwen’s ill-fitting shirt had become suddenly intolerable: with so much of his chest exposed above the buttons, he couldn’t ignore his scars. More than his clothes, he wished for his recently acquired clover pin, a tangible connection to Ironwood Farm. The high window offered no greenery to comfort him; this cell to which Branwen had escorted him had been down a set of stairs, and his view was of the packed dirt of the courtyard. The blue sky above was cut to a narrow slice between the high castle walls and the canvas side of a tent someone had erected just outside the window. It was a far cry from Branwen’s sunny chamber near the top of the keep.

As Clover paced, he wondered who the previous occupant of his prison had been. It was too fine to have been made just for him; the carefully crafted quilt upon the bed and the tapestries handwoven with forest scenes spoke of a chamber furnished with love. There was even an overstuffed armchair, embroidered with tiny red and black flowers and strewn with half a dozen small cushions. If Clover had had a key to the door, and the window hadn’t been barred, the room would have been almost pleasant.

But the abundance of physical comforts did not sway him. He didn’t know why the wizard kept such a luxurious cell, but he was determined to not to occupy it any longer than he had to. He no longer had any confidence that the wizard could protect Ironwood Farm. A man (even a magical one), who delegated his public audiences to a hapless boy could never understand the importance of family. It would be up to Clover to find a way home.

Branwen hadn’t seemed to understand that, when Clover had tried to reason with him on their way to the cell.

“You don’t understand,” Clover had said, once he’d recovered from the shock of the wizard’s knowledge. “Ironwood will need me.”

He’d had to throw the words over his shoulder - he remained unbound, but Branwen watched warily from three paces behind him.

“You didn’t see what I saw, toy soldier,” Branwen had said. The mocking tone of the nickname was gone, and in its place a kind of fear.

“I should have stayed until you’d told us,” Clover had replied. “How will Ironwood defend against a danger he doesn’t know to expect?”

“Ironwood Farm is not where the danger is most pressing.” Branwen’s gruff voice had been unreadable, but Clover had imagined he’d heard a waver, and pressed further as they’d made their slow way down the stairs.

“And what about your nieces?” Clover had asked. “What about Ruby and Yang?” Without being able to see the other man’s face, he hadn’t been sure his words would make an impact, but the sudden silence behind him had spoken volumes.

When Branwen had spoken again, it was as if the words had been heavily weighted.

“They’re safer if I’m here,” he’d said. But he hadn’t sounded particularly convinced, and as the door to his cell had swung closed, Clover had caught a glimpse of the uncertain expression on his face.

Though he’d been unsuccessful at avoiding incarceration, Clover was determined to find a weakness in the cell. But although the stones around the window were clearly a newer part of the wall, the bars were installed in them soundly, and the opening would have been too small to squirm through even if Clover hadn’t been injured. The door was a solid slab of oak, and the heavy lock that bound it was cold iron; there would be no escape that way either. The walls were impenetrable, and as he considered them, it seemed to Clover that he could sense the full weight of the castle overhead pressing down upon them. The urge to be free was suddenly overwhelming, and Clover couldn’t help rattling the latch upon the door, but it didn’t so much as budge the lock. 

“Quiet,” a deep voice snapped from outside, the speaker punctuating her words with a dull knocking thud. The guard outside hadn’t looked kindly on Clover when he’d been delivered here, and it seemed her opinion hadn’t improved with the intervening hours.

He resisted the urge to shake the latch again and went to the window, staring up at his little band of sky. Though it had been pure and boundless blue when he had first started to pace, it was darkening now, the white clouds going thin and grey.

The sounds in the courtyard rose as the light began to fall, and Clover could hear the crackling of cookfires and the chatter of voices as the refugees from Pallium emerged from the castle to make their dinners. The atmosphere was one of boisterous good cheer, as it had been in the Veridian Hall; whatever else the wizard had done, he had managed to fill these people with hope. 

The smell of their meals wafted through the bars as Clover pressed his face into them, and his stomach growled ferociously. He hadn’t had anything to eat since waking in Branwen’s room, and whatever healing magic Jaune had used had left him feeling wrung out and ravenous. The pungent odour of stewing cabbage was a potent reminder of home, those few days Elm was allowed to cook dinner. 

Clover turned his face back to the sky, trying to push away thoughts of the farm. He needed to focus on his escape, not the reason for it. The blue was fading fast now, the castle walls dimming from rich brown stone to washed out grey shadows. But in his slice of sky, Clover spotted a fast-moving speck, too small and dark to be a cloud. As he watched, it wheeled: a bird, soaring through the warm summer air. Caught on some current, it banked out of sight before quickly diving back into view. Bemused, Clover followed the arc of its flight until it was hidden by the tent. A chorus of outraged shrieks erupted from the direction of its descent and the bird shot up again, a hunk of bread clutched in its beak. In a flurry of feathers, it climbed to the level of the walls and circled there with its prize until the hubbub died away. Rather than ascend beyond the castle, as Clover had expected, the bird tucked in its wings and plunged - directly towards the tent in front of his window. As it landed awkwardly in the deepening shadows behind the tent, it drew close enough for Clover to identify it as a crow. In addition to the slice of bread in its beak, there was something clutched in its talons, and the bird hopped awkwardly to find its footing. Once settled, the crow ripped into the bread with abandon, strewing crumbs everywhere. There was something familiar about the motion, but Clover couldn’t quite identify why.

He peered at the object the crow had been carrying, and though his cell was growing dark and the light of the campfires was distant, he could see that it was a dull iron key. Even as the crow devoured the bread, it kept the key protected under its feet. But if it hopped just a little closer, Clover could just about reach it. 

It wouldn’t be the key to his cell. It couldn’t be. But Clover couldn’t help slowly, agonizingly slowly, stretching his good arm through the bars.

The bird seemed consumed with its meal, and didn’t appear to notice. Clover inched his hand closer.

What reason would a crow have to hoard a key? Where had it even found a key to hoard in the first place? It was clearly awkwardly heavy, the extra weight making it difficult for the crow to scarf down the bread. And its pitted and rusted appearance surely wasn’t particularly enticing for a bird. 

Clover froze mid-reach as the crow’s head snapped up. For a moment, he thought it was going to fly away, but its beady eye held his gaze.

Could there be something familiar about a bird? Clover couldn’t shake a sudden certainty that this was his crow, the bird that had visited him so often at Ironwood Farm. There was something about the sweep of its wings, the little crest formed by the ruffled feathers on his head. But without the light of day, it was impossible to know for sure.

With a flick of his taloned foot, the crow tossed the key towards Clover’s hand. He snatched it up before the bird could think better of it, grimacing as the stretch pulled through his injured shoulder. The crow watched him pull the key back through the bars, his feathered head cocked curiously to one side.

Clover held the bird’s gaze as he abandoned the macerated bread and hopped closer. The crow’s path took him into the puddle of campfire light that spilled between the tent canvas and the castle wall. As the light struck his back, the bird went suddenly motionless but for the breeze threading through his feathers. 

Just as it seemed the crow might hop closer still, there was a shout of triumph, and a shadow fell over the bird, who took flight instantly. As the crow ascended, the villager who’d been hunting him cursed, stopping just short of turning the corner that would have given her a view of Clover’s cell. 

Clover watched the crow until he couldn’t see him anymore, then considered the gift the bird had left him. The key was heavy, and clearly well used; though the handle was dull with age, the key’s teeth gleamed. It was certainly of a size to fit the lock. 

And yet, Clover could not bring himself to believe the door would open. If it did, he would have to consider how the crow knew to bring him this key. The clover pin had been suspicious enough; crows were smart enough to set a watch when stealing crops, but they surely weren’t that smart. And if this wasn’t his crow, it made matters even worse, because it meant Clover was somehow collecting a cadre of hyper-intelligent birds.

No, this key could not be the key to his cell, Clover reasoned, so there would be no harm in trying it in the door. He crossed the dark room, narrowly avoiding knocking his shins on the armchair, and slid the key into the lock.

It slotted in perfectly.

Clover went still, suddenly aware of the need for stealth, but the soft clinking of the key in the lock didn’t seem to have alerted the guard outside. His heart was hammering. He’d expected to need to break out, but he hadn’t expected the escape to be handed to him. What could it mean? 

Harriet’s accusation echoed in his head. The crow had to be one of the witch’s spies. The twin coincidences of pin and key were too great. But why would the bird have chosen to help him?

And then Clover realized, with a sinking feeling, that a creature of the witch would only help him if her monstrous forces could gain something from it. If the witch had a hand in his escape, then it would serve evil ends, whether he willed it or not. With a sickening twist of his stomach, he realized exactly how that might be.

If the wizard’s boy had conveyed his master’s thoughts correctly, then the ruler of the castle already knew what Clover had only just now accepted as a possibility. 

If Clover escaped, the witch would retake control of his mind.

He pulled his trembling hand from where the key still protruded from the lock. The realization had broken the floodgates in his memory, and Mistral was pouring back. There was no longer any chance of returning it to its box. 

Shaking, Clover put his back to the door, trying to focus on the bright pulse of pain from his shoulder, but it was no use. The red was here, rising up from memory like an ocean, and he knew he would drown this time.

Of course he couldn’t escape this cell, if that was what she desired. The last time he’d fled the witch, he’d lasted no more than an hour after his recapture before snapping under her will. It had taken Ironwood nearly killing him in a battle miles from the front lines to break him free five years ago. And Ironwood had been clear that Clover shouldn’t expect that mercy from him again. Clover wouldn’t have asked for it. You could not reason with the creatures of the witch. There was nothing of themselves to reason with, only her will. Only the red.

And Clover had been such a very good soldier before his first capture by her forces. So efficient. The witch had been pleased. He’d gotten to see her personally, which she had assured him was an honour. 

It was his last memory before Ironwood Farm that was untainted by red.

He did not know how long he sat staring at the wall before the world came back. As it did, he noticed, distantly, that there was something touching his hand.

The cell was dark, but for a band of yellow light seeping under the door. The faintest flickers of firelight lit the window, the last remnants of the campfires. In the dim glow, Clover could see the bird, the crow again, nudging his knuckles with his beak.

Clover slowly unclenched his jaw, unfisted his hands. The bird had come back. 

He tried to move slowly, but when he sat up, it felt as if another did so in his body. He was suddenly consumed by a horrifyingly urgent compulsion to check his eyes, but he had felt this particular disconnect before. The witch would not have given him time to notice her control. This was simply the usual result of allowing his thoughts to stray too far from the present. 

He stared down at the bird, who looked up at him, eyes glinting in light bleeding through under the door. When Clover didn’t move, the crow gave two great flaps and landed on his good shoulder, talons digging into the exposed skin. With surprising delicacy, the bird leaned in and nipped Clover’s ear.

The pain was shocking, worse for an instant than the relentless throb of his shoulder. Clover swatted at his ear instinctively, and the crow hopped nimbly out of the way, balancing precariously on the key where it protruded from the lock. Clover’s anger at the creature subsided as quickly as the sting in his ear: he couldn’t deny that it had helped him feel as if he controlled his own body once more.

Clover knew he had to take this chance.

Perhaps this was a plot of the witch. But his alternative was to sit in this cell until the castle fell around him, and then she would come for him anyway. If his escape was a trap, then at least he entered with his eyes open.

He wouldn’t hide from a chance to save his home, however slim. 

Clover reached up and turned the key.

Through luck or happenstance, the door hinges were well oiled, and there was nary a creak as the door swung outward. As soon as the opening was wide enough to pass through, the crow hopped out. It looked back at Clover again, then took flight with a loud squawk, shooting past the guard towards the stairs that led back to the Veridian Hall and the wizard’s audience chamber.

“Oi!” she shouted, and while her attention was drawn by the fleeing crow, Clover yanked the key from the lock and stole out of the cell.

The corridor was long and narrow; as soon as the guard turned back he would be spotted. Clover sprang into action, ducking low to grab the bottom of her quarterstaff, pulling the weapon up and knocking her off balance. As she struggled to regain her footing, he shoved her into the cell, and she stumbled back, her heel catching on the leg of the armchair. Clover pushed the cell door closed, quickly locking it as the guard pounded on it from the other side.

The door muffled her shouts of outrage, but assuming the wizard had been planning to feed him, his soldiers would find her soon enough. Clover needed to get beyond the castle walls, and quickly. He climbed the stairs quietly as the adrenaline from the fight wore off, ears peeled for any hint of pursuit. 

The castle was full of noise, even at night. The draughty stone halls carried the echoes of marching footsteps, but Clover saw no one as he retraced his steps to the Veridian Hall. The sounds of soft conversation grew as he approached the vast chamber. It couldn’t be so very late after all; though the hall was much emptier now, there were still clumps of villagers gathered around the hearth, sharing tea from the large iron kettle. No alarm had been raised, and Clover was able to skirt around the edge of the hall, keeping his gaze on the floor and hoping no one took note of his unusual attire.

And then he was free and clear in the courtyard, back under the starry sky.

Clover took his first full breath since being imprisoned. The torches lighting the castle walls did little to dim the splendour of the heavens above, and he let himself soak in the sight, just for a moment. It was quiet in the courtyard: the families had retreated to their tents, and there was only one soldier left in the makeshift sparring circle, running through some practice forms. Clover drew back against the wall of the keep, but the soldier didn’t glance his way, and the guards on the outer walls were all facing out towards the forest.

Clover picked his way between the tents towards the stable and the castle gates. There would undoubtedly be guards there, but with each step away from the keep, Clover grew more confident that he would be able to talk his way past them. No one else had seemed to know he was a prisoner. If he could snag some less obtrusive clothes, he could argue his way through the gates as a stubbornly misguided villager intent on returning home to Pallium.

He was so caught up in developing his plan that he didn’t hear the soldier’s approach until it was too late.

The man must have moved on silent feet to get close enough to tap Clover’s shoulder without him noticing. Clover turned to face him, trying to keep the motion slow and calm.

“I have not seen you here before,” the soldier said, a faint crease between his dark eyebrows. His eyes were just a shade or two darker than Harriet’s and narrowed with distrust as he scanned Clover’s ill-fitting clothes.

“I-”

Before Clover could trot out his manufactured cover story, he was interrupted.

“Relax, blossom, he’s with me.”

The soldier’s mild look of confusion smoothed away as Branwen approached, Jaune following in his wake. 

Clover had been lucky so far, but he would never be able to escape someone with Branwen’s combat training. He still had the key in his pocket; perhaps they wouldn’t search him and he’d be able to make another attempt once he was returned to his cell. But to his surprise, Branwen simply nodded to him, pointing to the stables.

“Best not to talk out here,” he said, red eyes catching Clover’s. He wasn’t wearing the grey clothes he’d worn on the farm, but instead was clad in the same green and gold uniform the soldier had been, though his ragged cloak was still draped across his shoulders. His greatsword was strapped across his back, and Kingfisher was buckled to his belt.

Behind the huntsman, Jaune was smiling brightly in his white robes. Despite their short acquaintance, Clover felt sure the healer wouldn’t have been able to hide his concern if he’d felt something was amiss. That could only mean that Branwen hadn’t told Jaune of Clover’s imprisonment.

He would be cautious, he decided as he followed the huntsman, but hopeful. That attitude had served him well on Ironwood Farm.

As they filed into the stable, Clover caught sight of a black bird perched on the crenellations near one of the torches, watching them with beady eyes. The sky was fully dark: surely a normal bird would have been asleep by now. It must be his crow, checking on him; he threw the bird a little salute as he ducked inside.

The stable was full of the smells of hay and horses, and home to a familiar face. Maggie the mule was dozing in the stall nearest the door, her tail twitching to beat away the flies that settled on her hindquarters. Branwen led them past her, down the aisle of stalls to the tack room where the saddles were stored, and gestured them inside. As Clover hesitated on the threshold, Branwen leaned over and spoke in a low voice.

“Just let the kid heal you.”

Clover had no reason to trust him, but Branwen had clearly had some sort of change of heart since their last conversation. He’d keep hoping, he thought, as he stepped into the tack room.

Jaune didn’t seem to be coping well with the overpowering smell of manure. It was with a pinched nose that he directed Clover to sit on an upturned bucket so he could begin peeling back the dressing on his shoulder.

“Remember what you said, Qrow,” he said, a trifle nasal. “I do this, and my poker debt is clear.”

“You got it, sunshine.” The huntsman seemed distracted; he’d remained leaning in the doorway, staring back towards the stable doors.

“I mean it,” Jaune insisted. “If Alice found out I was doing extra healing after hours, she’d-” he paused. “I don’t know what she’d do, but it would be terrible.”

“Better do it quick then,” Branwen replied, and Jaune sighed.

“This shouldn’t hurt,” he told Clover. “Tell me right away if it does.”

He laid a hand on Clover’s shoulder, and a warm yellow glow sprang up from the point of connection. Clover expected it to remain localized, but the light soon spread, until his body was encased in it. It was faintly warm, just enough to be a little uncomfortable on a hot summer night, but not unpleasant. His shoulder felt hot, then cold, before settling into the deep ache he’d usually feel after a particularly long and strenuous day of farm work.

When Jaune pulled his hand away, Clover nearly swayed after it, swamped by a wave of exhaustion and hunger. But this second bout of healing had closed the wound almost completely; all that remained was a thin red scab.

Clover rolled his shoulder. There was still a twinge: an echo of the memory of the injury. He knew from his other scars that he’d never be entirely free of that. But he’d regained his range of motion, and he could fight effectively once more.

Jaune was pleased; he had Clover do a few more stretches before pronouncing him as cured as magic would allow. The healer seemed eager to escape the smells of the stables; as soon as he was satisfied with Clover’s recovery, he waved them farewell and fairly sprinted up the aisle.

As the sound of his footsteps faded away, Clover’s stomach growled ferociously, and Branwen’s already worried expression took on a slightly panicked cast.

“Fuck,” he said. “I hadn’t even thought-” He patted the pockets of his uniform tunic, dipping a hand into one and pulling out a slightly crushed bread roll. 

Clover practically inhaled it. It was herby and delicious, the centre packed with soft cheese. Far finer than anything they had the time or inclination to bake on the farm. He felt no shame in licking the crumbs from his fingers.

His stomach had undercut the tone he had hoped for in this conversation, and Branwen seemed at a similar loss as he watched Clover devour the last morsels of the roll. Clover swallowed down the rest of his hunger, determined to start strong.

“I need to know what you saw coming,” he said. “I am going to protect my home.”

Branwen stepped inside the tack room, pulling the door closed behind him. Without the light from the stable proper, it was hard to read the expression on his face, but the candlelight still revealed the tension in his jaw.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked. “It may change your mind.”

“My mind is not so malleable.” Perhaps if Clover said it out loud, he could start to believe it. He watched as Branwen leaned against the rack of bridles, red eyes glinting in the light of the candle.

“The news I had to tell the wizard,” Branwen said, “wasn’t just updated troop movements. The witch herself is in Pallium.”

The tack room seemed to shrink around them, as if all the air had been sucked away. Clover had thought he’d have time, but she was already here. He stared at the candle as it guttered, the flame flickering low on the wick.

“I know you were a soldier in Mistral,” Branwen continued. “Your fighting at the ford - no barely-trained farmhand could have pulled that off. When Oz told us, he was only confirming what I already knew.”

Clover couldn’t think of a convincing denial, and he didn’t want to give Branwen a reason to dig any deeper into his past. If the huntsman discovered what side Clover had fought for in Mistral, there was no way he wouldn’t escort Clover back to his cell himself. With that thought, Clover suddenly realized what had been missing from their conversation. “Don’t you want to know how I escaped?”

The question seemed to catch Branwen off guard. He looked down, his face falling into shadow that painted his cheekbones in stark relief.

“I’m sure I’ll hear all about the hole in our security from Raven,” he said, his voice strangely distant. “It’s not important,” he continued, seeming to gather his thoughts. “If you’re still convinced you need to return to Ironwood, I won’t stop you. Oz - he’s only concerned with the castle, these days. With your skill, you could make a difference on the farm.”

Clover didn’t know how to reconcile this Branwen with the one who’d escorted him to his cell. The one who’d refused to look at him in his audience with the wizard.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

When Branwen met his gaze, Clover was struck by the intensity of it, the raw emotion in the huntsman’s eyes.

When the other man finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “Because I wish I could go with you.”

And Clover could see it was the truth, that whatever Branwen’s relationship to the wizard was, he didn’t fully trust him either. He steeled himself.

“Then perhaps you should join me.”

Branwen went suddenly stiff.

“Salem has to come here,” he said, a note of desperation in his voice. “She knows she has to eliminate Oz to ever have a chance of holding Atlas. The most she can send to Ironwood’s farm are Grimm soldiers, and Ruby and her team are more than equipped to handle those. Oz needs me here.”

“You don’t believe that.” As he said it, Branwen’s expression showed Clover it was true. “You think there’s danger the wizard’s not accounting for.”

“Thinking is not the same as knowing,” Branwen said impatiently. “The wizard sees things we do not.”

“But he didn’t see what you saw,” Clover insisted. “You know what Ironwood faces if her forces turn that way.”

In the confines of the tack room, he hadn’t been expecting Branwen to turn to him so aggressively. “And what would you have me do?” the huntsman demanded. “Abandon the people here to chase after a hunch?”

Clover held his ground, even as Branwen leaned closer. “I’d have you do what’s right.”

“‘What’s right’,” Branwen scoffed. “I’ve never had much luck with that.”

Clover reached out a hand to the other man’s shoulder, heartened when he didn’t pull away. “Then perhaps it’s time for your luck to change.”

Branwen couldn’t quite hide the surprise that blossomed on his face, though he made a valiant effort to school his expression into casual neutrality. He nodded slowly. “You’ll have a better chance on the road with a partner,” he said, and Clover knew he’d convinced him. He released the other man’s shoulder reluctantly, stepping back to give him as much space as he could in the cramped room.

“I hope you have a plan to get me through that gate.”

It turned out Branwen did have a plan to get Clover through the gate. He’d brought another of the uniforms of the wizard’s uniforms for Clover to wear, and ducked out of the tack room as Clover stripped off his ruined shirt. Being garbed in the clothing of the army made their passage out of the castle a simple matter, the guards offering Branwen a torch as they passed. 

As they reached the cover of the forest, Branwen stopped suddenly and cursed.

“I nearly forgot,” he said. “You’d better have this back.” He unbuckled Kingfisher from his waist and handed it to Clover, who overcame his initial reluctance and took the sword. He would need a weapon, even if he had to use one steeped in uncomfortable memory.

“Oh,” Branwen added. “And I found this, as well.”

Sitting on his palm was the clover cloak pin, green enamel gleaming in the torchlight, and Clover’s heart felt suddenly warm. His hands were still busy with Kingfisher’s scabbard, but he nodded his thanks.

“If you could just wait-”

“I’ll just-”

Clover’s hands froze on the buckles of his sword belt as Branwen reached for his neck, but the moment of instinctual fear passed as Branwen took the collar of his uniform, sliding the pin through the boiled wool.

“That’s-uh. That’s better,” Branwen said, his voice gruff.

“Thank you.” Clover kept his head down as he finished affixing Kingfisher to his waist, hoping the heat in his face wasn’t obvious. He realized he might have failed to hide it when he raised his head to see Branwen staring, but before he could play it off, the sky exploded into silver.

It was as if a thousand bolts of lightning had struck simultaneously. The forest around them was suddenly filled with light, each leaf and branch washed out to silvery white. It was as bright as day, but the silver tint made it seem more like moonlight than the golden light of the sun. There was a cacophony of animal shrieks and howls as the forest creature were roused from nests and burrows by the all-encompassing glare.

The last thing Clover saw before the world washed out silver was the look of horror on Branwen’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading, I hope you continue to enjoy! The positive feedback has been great, I'm having a blast writing this :)


	6. Six for Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've conservatively added a Body Horror tag, please curate your reading experience accordingly!

Though the light that enveloped him was cold, Clover felt as if he was burning.

It was so bright that closing his eyes made no difference to its brutal brilliance, so bright that it felt like a physical force. The air was ripped from his Clover’s lungs as he dropped to his knees. The ground beneath him felt distant, unreal, and all sound had been sucked away. The silence pressed down upon him as the light roared. 

The silver was scorching every part of him, igniting his body and searing through his soul. As he gasped for breath, he felt the light invade the core of his being, until it seemed that everything he’d ever done was cast into stark relief on the backs of his eyelids. There was the soft glow of his time on Ironwood Farm, and the pale inferno of his life in Mistral. And between them stood a pillar of darkness, the time he had spent under the influence of the witch. As the light blazed brighter, the borders of the column flickered. Something in his mind shifted and tore, and the shadowy pillar began to crumble away under the light’s assault.

And then, as quickly as it had overwhelmed him, the light was gone.

Clover’s chest heaved as he drew in shuddering breaths, stunstruck tears streaming down his face. In the absence of the light he was all but blind, but the sounds of the forest were slowly returning, the crescendo of terrified animal noises drowning out the rustling of the breeze in the leaves overhead. Branwen was coughing harshly, and Clover put out a hand, feeling his way across the packed earth between them to rest it on the other man’s knee. As he made contact, Branwen tensed, the fabric of his uniform trousers going taut under Clover’s fingers. Clover gripped tighter, because whatever had just happened, Branwen was real and alive, and that meant Clover was too. The moment stretched like honey, just the two of them kneeling on the forest floor.

But it couldn’t last; Branwen finally stopped panting and time snapped back. As soon as he caught his breath, he gasped out, “Ruby,” and sprang to his feet. Before Clover could fully blink away the afterimages of the glare, the huntsman was dashing into the forest at a full sprint. Clover shook his head, trying to clear the remaining disorientation fogging his mind, and stumbled after him.

Branwen had taken the torch, but there was a waning moon rising overhead, its silvery light a pale echo of the radiance that had consumed them. Clover let that light guide him, keeping his eyes on the flickering flame ahead of him as it bobbed frantically between the tree trunks. Branwen was as fast on his feet now as he had been during their spar at Ironwood Farm, and Clover couldn’t hope to catch him.

“Branwen!” he shouted as he ran, but the other man must have been too distant. Clover willed his feet faster, trying to close the distance, and tried again.

“Qrow!”

At the sound of his first name, Branwen — Qrow, he’d helped Clover escape, Clover would call him Qrow — faltered in his headlong race through the trees, but hesitated only an instant before pressing onward. Clover ran doggedly after him. The forest had fallen unnaturally silent around them as its inhabitants subsided once more; all Clover could hear was the thumping of his heart in his ears, the thud of his feet on the track.

He’d expected Qrow to flag, but it seemed his huntsman training had prepared him for a nighttime sprint through the forest. Slowly, inexorably, the torchlight faded from view. Clover put on a last desperate push, trying to catch up before Qrow reached the Ash River, but there was no sign of the huntsman by the time he approached the water’s edge. 

As Clover drew closer, he could see that wasn’t quite true. Qrow had abandoned the torch on the river bank, its flame extinguished by the water. Clover picked it up as he navigated the gouges left in the earth where they had fought the Grimm soldiers the previous day. None of the bodies remained; the wizard must have ordered them removed. Clover was glad of it as he made the crossing: he didn’t want red eyes watching him, even in death. He knew he couldn’t have saved them. It had been pure luck that Ironwood had wounded Clover enough to incapacitate him without killing him, and even then Clover’s recovery of his own mind had been slow and painful. If he’d tried to save the soldiers he’d fought yesterday, he would have been quickly overwhelmed.

Knowing that didn’t help him feel less defeated by their senseless deaths. Clover tried to leave the thoughts of the fallen on the northern bank of the river as he hurried on.

With no indication of which way Qrow had gone, Clover continued following the road, moving as quickly as he could without turning an ankle in the darkness. Ironwood Farm was the first stop along this route, but eventually it would join back up to the main road to Pallium. He hoped Qrow didn’t intend to run that far. Clover hadn’t pushed himself like this in years, and he was already beginning to feel the strain.

He’d been running for nearly an hour when something swooped down from the trees. Clover dived forward, rolling away as whatever it was sailed over his head and landed on the road behind him.

“Salutations!” a chipper voice said, entirely too enthusiastic for the setting and the hour. “It’s you, Mr. Ebi!”

Clover turned slowly, convinced his ears must be playing tricks on him. But he had made no mistake; it was the girl who had saved them at the ford. Her red hair shone dark in the moonlight, and her twin swords were belted to either side of the green kilt she wore.

“My name is Penny Polendina,” she said, holding out a hand. “You were too unconscious to hear it yesterday!”

Clover threw a glance over his shoulder, but there was still no sign of Qrow on the road. Penny didn’t seem to notice his hesitation, shaking his hand vigorously when he put in hers. Her green eyes were very bright.

“It is a pleasure to see you in full possession of your faculties!” she said. “Do you know what caused the explosion?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Clover replied.

“It was no normal conflagration,” she explained authoritatively. “It seemed to impact the elderly particularly, as my father was quite stricken while I remained unaffected. I hope you are fully recovered?”

Only the truly genuine nature of her tone prevented Clover from feeling insulted. 

“I’ve been following Huntsman Branwen,” he said. “He seemed to know what had happened.”

“Oh, your partner!” Penny exclaimed, carrying on before Clover could correct her. “I haven’t seen him come this way.” A tiny frown creased her forehead, barely visible in the moonlight. “Perhaps he is still ahead of us?”

And growing further away with every minute they spent talking, Clover thought. Penny seemed to reach the same conclusion.

“Onward, Mr Ebi!” she cried. She vaulted over a low-hanging branch and caught the one above it in both hands, swinging her way up into the trees. Though she was hidden in shadow almost immediately, Clover could see the downright unsettling speed of her passage along the branches in their rustling leaves. He picked up his pace again, but unlike Qrow, Penny seemed to be willing to wait, slowing her progress through the trees to match Clover’s on the road. 

They had nearly reached the turn-off for Ironwood Farm and Clover’s calves were burning when he first noticed the sky was lightening to the east. The orange glow reminded him of the light just before dawn, but the rest of the sky was still a deep and inky black, not the faded purple hue it took as the sun rose. He slowed as, with a sinking sense of dread, he remembered where he’d seen a sky like this before. 

For a moment, he was back in Mistral, tasting the same smoke in the air as the witch’s most trusted lieutenant went to work on a small village. Clover had been smiling then, as her golden fire had gutted the town. Lieutenant Cinder had been a force of nature, named for what she left behind. His muscles suddenly stiff with fear, Clover bolted down the path to his home. From her perch in the tree behind him, Penny gave a wordless cry of distress and followed in the branches above.

Penny was fast, but Clover ran as if he could feel fire licking at his heels, ran until he could barely breathe. The orange glow was growing, taking over more and more of the sky, and smoke was pouring down the track. Clover pulled the neck of the uniform tunic over his nose and pushed himself forward, squinting against the eye-watering sting of the smoke. Though the soft light of the moon had long been obscured, the hazy air before him had begun to glow yellow-orange, like hot iron in a blacksmith’s forge.

“We can’t go this way, Mr. Ebi!” Penny shouted. “I will find us another path!”

But Clover didn’t stop, not even when he got his first glimpse of the flames climbing the trees in the distance. It didn’t take long for the trees on either side of him to be consumed by the blaze: the fire was moving fast, leaping from treetop to treetop like something alive. They had done controlled burns on the farm to clear the fields, digging careful ditches to keep the hungry flames in check. This was what happened when the beast escaped, and the residual damp from yesterday’s rain was doing little to slow it. It felt like his skin was baking, an angry parallel to the indifferent silver light that had scoured him earlier. 

He pushed on because he had to. He knew Penny would not find another way through the forest. Maybe she could outrun this fire, but it had been too late for Clover as soon as he’d first noticed the glow above the trees and understood what it meant. If Lieutenant Cinder was here, was allowed to finish her work, she would leave only ashes behind. He had to reach the farm. His only hope would be to reach the stream that wound through the northern fields, and try and follow its bed out into the open fields.

Sweat was pouring down Clover’s face now, and the smoke filled his lungs even through the makeshift filter of the tunic. The trunks of the trees loomed up at him through the fire, dark shadows limned in light, and Clover dodged them blindly, swaying with the effort. But as he swerved around a burning sapling, a new shape emerged from the blaze. There was someone kneeling in the road.

Clover stumbled forward, dodging as a branch snapped off a flaming tree above him.

It was Qrow.

He didn’t seem to hear when Clover shouted his name, but he was mostly upright, not overcome by the smoke yet. Clover dashed to him; the ragged ends of his cloak were smouldering, and Clover stamped the embers out.

“I was too late for her,” Qrow said, barely audible over the fire. “Just like I was for her mother.” There were scorchmarks on the sleeves of his tunic, as if he’d tried to dip his forearms in the flames. 

As Clover bent to try and rouse him, there was a groaning sound behind them, and he looked over his shoulder to see one of the trees succumbing to the blaze. It fell into the road with a crash, the impact dislodging hundreds of flaming leaves and scattering them outward. The fire seemed to roar its triumph, the burning tree trunk now cutting off any retreat the way Clover had come. He turned back to Qrow and was relieved to see that the huntsman was looking at him.

“Clover?” he asked, and staggered to his feet. “What-” The smoke caught in his throat and he broke off coughing. There was a sudden snap above them, and Clover yanked the huntsman toward him as the oak beside them sheared in two, its upper branches tumbling down.

No way forward, no way back. Qrow was very close now; he had soot on the nose, and his face was as sweaty as Clover’s. He had known what the silver light was, and he could explain if Clover could just get them out of here. Clover leaned in towards the other man’s ear. 

“The stream,” he said, nearly shouting to be heard over the flame. “Have you seen it?”

Qrow didn’t waste time asking what he’d meant, joining Clover as he looked for any sign of the stream. After precious minutes of searching, the two of them choking on the smoke, Qrow grabbed Clover’s arm and pointed. “There,” he croaked, and Clover saw: the streambed, boiled dry but free of anything to burn, a narrow path through the fire. They would have to rush through the flaming underbrush that separated it from the road, but Clover knew that once they reached it, it would be a matter of minutes until they reached the fields.

“Follow me,” Clover rasped, the smoke coating his throat. He took Qrow’s hand in his and pulled him toward the streambed. The flames licked singemarks up his thick uniform trousers, but the cloth didn’t light and then they were through the blaze and sprinting down the narrow channel as fast as their legs could carry them. They ran through a tunnel of fire; though the trees had begun to collapse, they seemed no nearer to burning themselves out, and those still standing reached flaming branches overhead. Clover was hotter than he’d ever been, hotter than he would have thought possible. It felt like his skin was shrinking, like his lungs were shrinking, and his sweaty hand kept threatening to slip free of Qrow’s. Clover tightened his grip and pulled Qrow faster, and then they were through, out into the blessed darkness, the burning forest a furnace at their backs.

They stumbled, coughing, into the fields, lit by the dim orange light of the smoky fire behind them. His eyes watering, struggling to draw a full breath, Clover looked up.

Ironwood Farm was gone.

The field in which Clover stood was thick with ash, and what crops remained were still burning, sending thin plumes of smoke skyward. The farmhouse was engulfed by golden flame, the central structure nearly fully collapsed and spilling great gouts of fire into the north and south wings of the house. All of the farmhands’ cottages were alight; as Clover stood frozen, the thatched roof of Harriet’s cottage fell in, sparks flying upward.

As the cottage crumbled, there was a great shout of laughter, and Clover noticed for the first time the shadowy figures darting through the flames. They were clad in the black uniforms of the witch’s Grimm soldiers, and were wielding torches to kindle any part of Clover’s home that wasn’t already burning. As he watched, one of them gave a shriek of delight and lobbed their torch in a high arc towards the flaming forest.

This kind of destruction couldn’t have been achieved by Grimm soldiers alone. The farmhouse was cratered, as if struck by a massive flying boulder, and it was blazing all the way down to its foundation. Clover knew the witch’s first lieutenant had been here, but she wasn’t any longer; she’d left the footsoldiers to finish her work. 

That meant he had a chance. 

Putting his hand to Kingfisher’s fire-heated hilt felt like holding a hot coal, but Clover didn’t hesitate. He had to know what had happened to Ironwood and the others. Some of the buildings were still mostly intact; perhaps they’d managed to hide from the witch’s forces. 

The soldiers hadn’t seemed to notice their arrival through the flames; most of them were cavorting around the farmhouse, cheering as the flames grew higher. Clover skirted south through the fields, trying to hide his approach behind the mostly intact dairy barn. Behind him, he heard Qrow draw his greatsword and follow. They reached the shelter of the barn walls unnoticed and crouched there together, their knees dusted with ash.

“We should try to take one of them alive,” Clover said. His face felt gritty with smoke, but Qrow’s eyes were sharp with anger, cutting through the haze.

“No promises,” the huntsman growled. 

“They’re not here,” Clover said urgently. “That doesn’t mean they’re dead.”

“The witch take a lot of prisoners in Mistral?”

“Yes,” Clover said emphatically. “She- they would take the best fighters, and.” He couldn’t say it, he would have to be so careful. “Like the wizard said, she can…coerce people.”

“Not Ruby.” The anger had drained out of Qrow’s expression, now he just looked haunted. “The witch wouldn’t be able to-” He broke off, staring at the ground. Clover grasped his shoulder.

“Then let’s be sure. Maybe they managed to escape.” Gods, Clover hoped they’d been able to escape. The witch would have had no reason to capture farmhands. But he had to know.

“One alive,” Qrow agreed at last. 

Clover peered around the edge of the barn, watching one of the soldiers dance closer. As soon as the woman was within reach, he grabbed her collar and yanked her around the corner, driving the hilt of Kingfisher into her gut. As she sputtered, Clover took a step back to give himself some distance and slammed into Qrow, who grunted in irritation. The hunstman sidestepped Clover and took a swing with his greatsword, only to pull up short when Clover barked “Wait!”

Because this soldier wasn’t one of the witch’s thralls. Her eyes weren’t red at all, but a clear green that sparkled in the firelight. 

As Qrow hesitated, the woman’s face twisted into a snarl. She didn’t even reach for the narrow dagger hanging from her belt, simply baring her teeth and lunging for Clover’s neck. He whipped Kingfisher into position to block, but the woman didn’t stop, clamping both hands around the blade. Clover watched in horror as she pulled on Kingfisher, blood squeezing between her fingers.

Her eyes met his, and she started to laugh.

At first the sound was high-pitched, almost maniacal, but as it continued, it grew deeper and deeper, and the soldier began to transform. Her hands tightened on Clover’s blade, but they were growing hair at a prodigious rate, her knuckles swelling and thickening and her nails growing into long points. Her face vanished beneath a thick pelt of black fur as her nose extended into a snout. A white bone mask pushed up through the fur, blood red lines streaking across it as Clover watched. The woman’s neck shrank back, her shoulders rising and twisting until Clover stood face to face with a massive masked bear. As he stared, uncomprehending, the beast roared, revealing yellowing fangs as long as his hand. With one meaty paw, the bear ripped Kingfisher from his grip and tossed it into the smouldering wreckage of Elm’s cottage.

Clover stared after his sword, still dumbfounded, then startled back as the bear swiped at him with wicked claws. He nearly didn’t get clear, but Qrow wrenched him bodily out of the way, pushing him toward the cottage.

“Get your sword,” he shouted, twisting to block another slash of the bear’s claws. As Clover vaulted over what had once been the wall of Elm’s cottage, the laughter they had been hearing had died away. Kingfisher had landed on a pile of charred stone, the remains of Elm’s river rock collection. He snatched it up and jumped up onto the unsteady collection of bricks behind it to parry the first strike coming his way: the rest of the Grimm soldiers had closed in. These too seemed free of the witch’s influence, their eyes coming in every colour but red. One of them swung a flail toward Clover’s feet, toppling the pile on which he stood. Clover let the collapse of the bricks take him back toward Qrow, who was whipping around the bear at astonishing speed, using his blade to irritate her with dozens of small cuts. Clover took a position at the huntsman’s back, driving away the soldiers trying to surround them.

When Clover had fought for Mistral, he’d been part of a small team, all people from his home village of Asteno. The whole Mistralan army had worked that way, using the local knowledge of the smaller groups to engage in guerrilla tactics to harass the witch’s forces. Clover had worked with his teammates for years, honing their skill as a unit, and by the time of his capture by the witch, they had been able to act together without speaking. They’d executed complex pincer maneuvers with no more communication than a nod or a brandished weapon.

Fighting with Qrow was nothing like that. 

In the early moments of the fight, Clover found himself knocking elbows with the huntsman, and their feet seemed to be seeking the same places to stand. But as Clover dispatched another of the strangely clear-eyed soldiers, their styles seemed to meld together. When Qrow backed away from the bear, Clover gave ground before he realized he’d done it. He’d never fought with anyone approaching his own speed, and he was used to holding back to match a slower partner. But Qrow seemed to know what he intended almost before he moved, letting Clover dart in for a fast stab at the bear before going back to guarding their backs.

It seemed the bear-woman wasn’t the only one with the ability to transform. As the battle went on, Clover found himself fending off four-legged beasts in between the regular human attackers: wolves and coyotes howled and clawed at him, and one man changed into a large mountain cat midway through hurling his axe. The Grimm soldiers might not have been enthralled, but they didn’t seem to tire, and in their animal forms they were positively suicidal. In single combat, they were no match for Clover, but their numbers seemed endless, and only the very last of his strength was keeping Clover in the fight.

He was still exhausted from the healing he’d received from the castle, and that had been before the nightmarish sprint through the forest. So Clover knew why it was that he stumbled.

Just a little. Just enough to leave Qrow’s back exposed to the woman who’d been sweeping her sword for his head.

Clover watched it happen as if from the bottom of a pool of water. He lunged to block the strike, extending Kingfisher and already knowing he’d be too late.

Perhaps the woman was surprised to find a hole in Clover’s guard, or perhaps he was just a little faster than he’d thought, because he managed to deflect her strike with the tip of his blade, and the force of her thrust drove her sword into the wolf who’d been leaping from Clover’s throat. The wolf’s yelp echoed the pained howl of the bear behind him - Qrow must have struck a serious blow.

His arms felt like lead, but Clover managed to raise Kingfisher and open a slash across the attacking soldier’s chest, and she fell back clutching the wound. There were only two left; the wolf, injured but upright, and another human soldier, who sliced forward with her sabre. Clover knocked the blade away, and if his Mistralan commanders would have been disappointed with his form, at least he was still alive. A strike across its spine took care of the wolf, and then only the human soldier remained. Clover had nothing to use to restrain her, so he crowded forward, and twisted Kingfisher to force her blade from her grasp. As he grabbed for her hands, there was a thunderous bellow from behind him, and he realized he’d lost track of Qrow.

He turned to see that the bear had risen on her back legs. Qrow had his back against the barn wall, his greatsword was still held ready despite the blood dripping into his eye from a cut on his brow.

Clover didn’t think. He simply threw Kingfisher.

The sword wasn’t balanced for throwing, and if the bear had been a pace further, Kingfisher would have bounced off her thick hide and fallen harmlessly to the ground. But she wasn’t, and so it didn’t. Instead, Clover’s sword buried itself in the bear’s shoulder, and she lurched forward - impaling herself on Qrow’s greatsword.

As the bear collapsed onto Qrow, the soldier Clover had been holding ripped her hands free of his grip and before he could grab for her again, she was haring across the fields. Clover didn’t linger on the lost opportunity; he dashed to the bear’s corpse and used quivering muscles to lever it off Qrow.

The huntsman spat fur and sat up. They were surrounded by Grimm corpses, both human and animal, but Clover was too exhausted to care. His muscles could not be prevailed upon to hold him up for another minute. He sat next to Qrow, surveying the wreckage of his home. When he closed his eyes, the sight merged seamlessly into his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise my only notes for the next chapter are "They talk".


	7. Seven For A Secret (Never To Be Told)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the angst train!

Clover dreamed of fire. Golden flames were all around him, and he was drifting over them, a single spark in a wave of others being lifted by the heat. The fire only wanted to consume, and so that was what Clover wanted too. When the flames raced out, he followed, looking for something to light. A building loomed out of the ocean of fire, and he raced toward it. But as he drew closer, he saw it was the farmhouse, and in that moment of realization he was himself again, tumbling into the blaze that burned his skin. As he fell down, down into the fire, a hand reached out to him. He grabbed for it, desperately, and it changed, swelling and growing fur until it was the paw of a bear. The masked creature hauled him up and howled in his face, and Clover scrabbled to free himself.

“Why struggle against the inevitable?” the bear asked, and her voice was the voice of the witch. Clover’s efforts to break the bear’s grip became frenzied, panic clenching his throat as his heart beat faster. 

“My little toy soldier,” the witch said through the bear’s mouth, her voice almost fond. In desperation, Clover threw out a hand, dislodging the bear’s bone white mask. But as the mask clattered to the ground, Clover saw that the creature was not a bear, not the witch, but himself: a self made of shadows with eyes glowing red and a mouth full of fangs. His dark twin picked up the mask with his free hand and brought it toward Clover's face as he writhed frantically to get away. The creature’s grip was preternaturally strong; his shadow claws were sinking into Clover’s wrist as the mask came ever closer. 

Just as he was about to give up hope of escape, he heard a familiar voice say his name. He turned toward the sound and saw that there was another hand outstretched toward him. For a precarious moment, Clover hesitated, fearful even in the dream that accepting the hand would lead to more horrors. But he could not remain and succumb to the mask. 

With one last, desperate heave, Clover wrenched his arm free and reached out - and woke up.

It seemed unfair that he still felt exhausted, but he couldn’t have slept more than a couple of hours. The sky was beginning to pale with the first light of dawn, the birdsong that usually accompanied it was conspicuously absent. There was something soft pillowed under his head: Qrow’s ragged red cloak. He shrugged it over his shoulders to keep off the morning chill, his muscles protesting being allowed to cool so quickly after so much overuse the previous day.

There was no sign of the huntsman, though the bodies of the witch’s soldiers, human and animal, had been dragged away from where Clover had been sleeping. He reached absently for the clover pin on his collar, relieved to feel it was still there after the chaotic fight the night before. It seemed like the forest fire had burned itself out, though smoke still rose from what remained of the trees. When Clover got to his feet, ash powdered upward, dusting his trousers to the knee. He was ferociously hungry.

He picked his way around where Harriet’s cottage had collapsed across the path and considered the farmhouse. It had been destroyed utterly by the fire, scorched down to the last stone. Clover stared, trying to feel anything other than a strange sense of detachment. It was as if he were a bird, tethered to the earth only by the remote knowledge that he must someday land.

In spite of the fire that had raged here, there was a huge spike of ice jutting out of the centre of where the house had stood. Aside from the faint steam rising from its frosty surface, it seemed impervious to the temperature of the air around it; there wasn’t so much as a puddle at its base. The bodies of a dozen Grimm soldiers were arrayed around it in a messy arc, their blood staining the ground. Clover noticed, with a removed sort of interest, that they had fallen as if fighting each other. When he stepped to avoid their staring dead eyes, he saw that they were all clear of the infectious red blight of the witch’s influence.

Clover turned away. It didn't matter if the Grimm soldiers had destroyed Ironwood’s home. Clover knew where Marrow kept a secret stash of honeyed oat bars in his cottage, because Clover was the one who had to keep filling the tunnels dug by the enterprising mice searching for them. But when he got to Marrow’s cottage, there were no mouse holes. There were no walls either, and certainly no food.

For a moment, Clover was in another ruined home, walking between scorched buildings with distant feeling of relief that was almost swallowed by the ocean of red consuming his mind. The memory was far sharper than this fuzzy reality.

He walked to his own cottage in a daze, pulling Qrow’s cloak tighter over his shoulders and stepping over a pattern of deep gouges that had been blasted into the path between the farmhands’ homes. Perhaps Qrow had left him here to search for his nieces. Clover could understand that. But he didn’t think the huntsman would have left his cloak behind.

Clover’s cottage was gone too. That was alright. He hadn’t kept much there anyway, just his clothes and his collection of corvid gifts. He hadn’t wanted to hang onto much after coming to Atlas: he’d been unable to shake the feeling that at any moment he’d need to abandon the safety of the farm and run.

But that wasn’t quite true, was it? Clover had allowed himself to get comfortable here. Ironwood had earned Clover’s respect a hundred times over. And he cared about his fellow farmhands in a way he’d sworn he never would again, not after the first time he’d failed to escape the witch’s clutches had ended in slaughter. 

He'd endangered them all. The witch would never have visited such wholesale destruction on a single farm if there hadn't been a larger score to settle. Clover shuddered, trying unsuccessfully to push the thought away, but the truth of his guilt loomed ever larger in his mind, a solid certainty in the midst of his hazy detachment.

There was a glint from the wreckage of his home as something caught the early morning light. Clover realized with a start he’d been standing and staring long enough for the sun to come up. He reached down, brushing debris aside to pick up the source of the reflection.

It was the scrap of chainmail the crow had given him, the delicate links of metal catching the light. His efforts to excavate it had revealed his pile of river smoothed glass pebbles, and a scorched black puddle that must have once been his silver coin. Clover collected the pieces of glass, tucking them and the chainmail into one of the deep pockets in his tunic. 

“Ebi!”

Clover turned and saw Qrow emerging from the wreckage of the forest. He had a bundle of greenery clutched in one hand, and he must have travelled far to get it, because all of the plant life Clover could see was charred and black. As the huntsman approached, Clover could see he looked as tired as Clover felt; his red eyes were no longer sharp, and there was something defeated in the set of his shoulders. The branches he carried were thick with mulberries, and he held some out as he approached the ruined wall of Clover’s cottage.

He didn’t try to draw Clover into conversation, for which Clover was thankful. He didn’t think he could have focused on anything but getting his hands on the food.

The mulberry wood Qrow handed him was too wet to be splintery, which was good; it looked like Qrow had hacked it from the tree with a very dull knife. Clover supposed a proper huntsman wouldn’t sully his weapon with a menial task like cutting branches any more than a soldier would, but it did leave Clover with sticky hands as he popped the berries into his mouth. Their tart taste settled his mind where quiet contemplation had not - mulberries had been his favourite summer fruit since coming to the farm.

But now the farm was gone.

Clover found he had to sit down abruptly as the knowledge suddenly felt real.

Because it was real. He was sitting in the ruins of his cottage, his home for the last five years. And there was nothing left.

The witch had done this.

She had taken everything from Clover once, and now she had done it again. How could the wizard stand against the forces that had obliterated Clover's home so completely? Atlas would fall as surely as Mistral, and this time there would be no Ironwood to help Clover escape. There would be nowhere left to escape to. The witch had found the farm, and she would find him; Clover would serve in the destruction of his second home just as he had in the first.

“Fuck,” someone said. “Ebi. Ebi, look at me”

Clover dropped the mulberry branches so he could put his face in his hands.

“Clover.” This time Clover recognized Qrow’s voice as the huntsman’s hands took his. “I found something. There might be a chance to- I need your help, you can’t fold on me.”

Clover didn’t want to fold. He focused on the feeling of Qrow’s hands around his. The huntsman’s grip was tentative, but his hands were strong, striped with the callouses that Clover’s had borne when he had been a soldier instead of a farmhand. They felt real, as real as the ruined farm around them. Clover was still here. He looked up at Qrow.

“Not out of the game yet,” he said, and if his voice was a little unsteady, at least Qrow had the decency not to comment. “Someone’s got to set things right.”

Qrow nodded, once, a quick duck of his sharp chin. He seemed to notice he was still holding Clover’s hands and dropped them abruptly, the tops of his pale ears going red.

Clover felt an answering blush rising in his cheeks and looked down, ostensibly to collect the mulberry branches. When he’d stripped the remaining berries and quieted his hunger, he leaned back against the rubble of the cottage wall, watching the huntsman as he scanned the horizon. 

“What happened here?” Clover asked. “Those things we fought-“

Qrow was shaking his head even before he’d finished speaking. “I’ve never seen anything like it. We knew the witch could influence animals, but Oz said her control over them had always been weaker than her dominance over human minds.”

“They weren’t hers,” Clover said. “They didn’t- In Mistral, the Grimm soldiers we fought always had red eyes. When they didn't, they weren't Grimm soldiers anymore."

“They were hers,” Qrow said darkly. “It’s just that some of the bastards follow her willingly.”

A sour taste crawled up the back of Clover's throat. He couldn’t imagine making that choice. When he had been enslaved to the witch’s purpose, her grip had been like iron; only her top commanders had been allowed to retain their own minds.

Even now, he could feel the weight of the crown pressing down on his head.

Qrow seemed lost in his own thoughts. “Those transformations,” he muttered, before trailing off into a shudder. “She’s a monster.” The huntsman could have been talking about the bear-woman they’d fought, but there was no doubt in Clover’s mind that he was referring to the witch.

“How were they even able to transform?” Clover asked. “There was nothing like them in Mistral.”

“The witch collects magic like Oz collects lost causes,” Qrow replied. “If she captures someone trained in magic and crushes their will, their talents are as good as hers. She must have found someone to grant the ability.”

He looked haunted by the prospect, and Clover couldn’t bring himself to ask what he’d face if Qrow fell to the witch’s power. Better that they determine what happened here and reach the wizard’s soldiers before they were taken to the witch at all.

“Was that what hit us last night? The power of a mage enslaved to the witch?”

Qrow’s expression grew hollow, and his words, when they came, seemed carefully chosen.

“That was Ruby,” he said slowly. “But she wouldn’t have used that power if she’d any other choice.”

“Why?” The subject was clearly delicate, but Clover had to know. "What can she do?"

“We're not entirely sure how it works, but she's somehow able to affect the witch's control," Qrow said. "The witch has been searching for someone with Ruby’s power for a very long time. Oz thought- I thought she’d be out of harm’s way, guarding the farm. Those girls are strong, more than a match for Grimm soldiers; what could she have sent here that overpowered them?”

He didn’t seem to expect an answer, and Clover knew he was growing close to revealing too much, but he couldn’t stand the empty look in the huntsman’s eyes.

“I’ve seen destruction like this before.” Qrow’s eyes snapped to his. “In Mistral I- There was a village.” Clover reminded himself to breathe normally. “A small village, named Asteno. The witch sent one of her lieutenants there. Lieutenant Cinder. She had a gift for fire.”

Qrow’s pale complexion had grown even paler.

“But why?” he asked. “What could they have-“ He broke off suddenly, looking into the fields, unwilling to even entertain his own question. When he met Clover's gaze again, his red eyes were somber. "I've searched - whatever happened, the girls aren't here. But we might be able to follow them: there were messages left behind." He gestured down at the path between the cottages. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

Clover got to his feet, abandoning the mulberry branches as he stepped over the crumbled wall of his cottage.

He hadn’t noticed it when he had stepped over it in his dazed state, but there was a symbol carved into the path between the remains of the farmhands’ cottages. Two circles, joined by a third with a large break in its arc. The circles were nearly three feet across, messily scorched into the earth.

Clover’s breath caught, and he had to remind himself that Qrow didn’t know that the symbol was meant for Clover; he couldn’t know, or Clover would never have made it out of the castle. But he’d already waited too long to say nothing, he could feel Qrow’s insistent gaze upon his back.

“It’s-uh,” Clover said, searching for the words that would save him. “It’s a brand for deserters from the witch’s forces. The weak link breaks the chain."

When he turned, he was relieved to see that Qrow’s primary expression was confusion.

“How can anyone desert from the witch’s armies?” he asked, more to himself than Clover. “There aren't many that have chosen to join her, and Oz said that only magic could break her hold on the rest.”

“It was rare, but her control could fade on the less valuable fighters.” Clover was saying too much, there was a spark of suspicion in Qrow’s eyes. “If they made it to us, we tried to keep them safe, but we couldn’t always.”

That much was true, Clover had known it to be true before he’d had any first hand experience, but Qrow seemed unconvinced.

“It can't be possible - I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said. “And I’ve been watching Grimm soldiers a long time.”

Clover didn’t dare say more.

“But if you're right, then she was looking for someone,” Qrow continued. He looked at Clover across the broken central circle. “And it looks like she found him.”

Clover froze.

“How much do you know about Ironwood’s time in Mistral?” 

Qrow's question was not the one Clover had expected. He didn’t know what Ironwood had told the wizard, or how much the wizard had shared with Qrow. He would have to tread carefully.

“We met there,” he said. “I wanted to get out of Mistral. He had been fighting for the wizard’s army, but he said he was finished, that he wanted me to join him on the family farm.”

Qrow laughed bitterly. “Sounds like Jimmy. Wholesome to the core.”

“I couldn’t have escaped Mistral without him.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a hero.” Qrow dragged his foot through the broken circle. “But did he ever tell you what he was doing for the wizard’s army?”

"No," Clover admitted. He hadn't asked. Ironwood hadn't asked him for details either. Clover had been glad to leave the past behind.

"I'd tell you," Qrow said. "But I don't know either. Ol' Jimmy went incommunicado while on a mission to infiltrate one of the witch's camps. I told Oz he was the wrong choice, but James was adamant, and the next thing I knew, Mistral had fallen and he wasn't working for Oz anymore. If his infiltration went south..."

Clover felt as if the ground was tilting under his feet. He'd been so sure that the witch had been looking for him. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps this hadn't been about him at all, at least not directly. But if the witch had learned that Ironwood was the one who'd taken Clover from her clutches, that was even worse.

"We have to find him," Clover said. "She- you said there's only Grimm here. Something happened to them."

"I checked everywhere," Qrow agreed. "Whatever happened they- I think they might still be alive. This wasn't the only message I found. Come on, I'll show you."

As Clover made to follow the huntsman toward the remnants of the forest, Qrow paused.

“Do you, uh, have everything you need?” Qrow swept a hand toward the scorched earth around them, then seemed to notice the wreckage encompassed by the gesture and aborted the motion. Clover looked back, but there was nothing left to keep. The only things he needed were ahead of them.

Qrow led the way through the south fields. He hadn't asked for his cloak back and Clover hadn't thought to give it to him. Without it, there was nothing to disguise the slump in the huntsman's shoulders. Clover had lost his home, but Qrow had lost people too, and last night he had seemed all too ready to believe that they were gone for good. Clover couldn't bring himself to even consider the possibility. The people he cared about might be safest if they never saw Clover again, but he had to believe that they could be safe.

When they reached the edge of the outermost field, Qrow dropped into the shallow irrigation ditch that bordered it and pointed to a design etched into the muddy bottom of the trench. It had clearly been done hastily, and it was a little lopsided, but its shape was familiar. Clover ran a thumb over his clover pin; the outline was nearly the same. Under the clover leaf was an arrow, pointing east, away from the trails that led north to the castle and south to Pallium.

The symbol wasn't small, but Clover had no idea how Qrow had spotted it. The other man's exhaustion made sense if he'd spent the hours before dawn combing the fields in search of a clue, but even then it must have taken incredible luck to find this.

"I redrew it as best I could," the huntsman said. "The ditch collapsed under me when I was walking here, but I managed to spot this as I, uh, fell. Seems like someone came this way."

Someone who thought to leave a message for Clover, not the wizard - Clover allowed his hope to grow.

"It had to have been Ironwood," he said. "But why would he point us east when the witch is in Pallium?" 

“I never told him she was there,” Qrow said. “He didn’t know where they were taking him.”

“But they must have taken him here from the main house. Why bring him to the edge of the farm, only to turn around?” Clover followed the line of the arrow with his gaze. The sun was climbing higher now, an indistinct white disc behind the hazy clouds. 

It was the wrong direction.

“He wasn’t trying to show me where he went,” Clover said. “He was trying to keep me from following.”

"Are you sure?" Qrow asked, rising to his feet. "James never was much for subtlety."

“But he always cared about keeping all of us safe.” The knowledge should have been warming, but Clover’s chest felt tight. Ironwood had used his last chance to communicate on trying to keep Clover out of the fight. What had he thought he’d be facing?

“West,” Clover said decisively. “We need to go west.”

They would catch up, Clover thought as they walked through the ashy ruins of the forest. If Ironwood had been taken, he would not have gone willingly. Clover and Qrow could move much faster than a party of soldiers dragging reluctant captives. They just needed to pick up the trail.

The fire had blazed away any sign of human passage they might have followed, so they walked until they reached the path that linked the farm to the main road to Pallium. The once clear trail through the forest was now obstructed by collapsed and crumbling trees. They hurried along it, but Clover hadn’t entirely recovered from the previous day, and he could tell Qrow hadn’t either. His lungs felt too small, as if the smoke was still choking him. The destruction around them highlighted just how lucky they had been to escape the blaze unscathed. How stupid Clover had been to run towards the fire instead of fleeing it. He didn't regret the impulse that had driven him. If he hadn't been desperate to save his home he never would have found Qrow. They'd spoken little as they walked, and Clover hadn't asked why the huntsman had run into the blaze. It seemed his instinct had been the same as Clover's, just activated sooner; when danger threatens, find the ones you need to keep safe.

Clover needed that impulse to drive him now; if he thought too much about where he was headed, he knew he would falter. They had to catch up before the others reached the witch, or Clover would no longer be able to help them.

It took a troublingly long time before the first living trees became visible in the distance, their leafy crowns rustling in the breeze that stirred up plumes of ash on either side of Clover. A shallow brook crossed the road here before winding north to join the Ash River, its bed wide enough to keep the fire from jumping its banks. The narrow planks that had bridged it had crumbled away, but the water splashing onto Clover's calves was a relief after their desiccated trip through the charred remains left by the fire. The green leaves south of the brook were a welcome change from the monochrome world of the ashfields, and Clover let out a sigh of relief as they stepped into their dappled shadows. Qrow too seemed more comfortable out of the weak white light of the sun: his steps extended, but he kept pace with Clover. They'd agreed not to wear themselves out with the chase; there would almost certainly be a fight to be had once they'd located the witch's soldiers.

With the forest came more opportunities for food. Qrow was surprisingly hopeless at foraging, missing edible fruits and berries even when they were right in front of him. Perhaps Clover’s hunger was giving him an edge. They never stopped for long, mindful of the urgency of their journey, but Clover was glad to finally quiet his stomach.

They saw no trace of their quarry until well after midday, the sun now all but hidden by the thickening clouds. The path had begun to swing west of its generally southerly bearing as it twisted to meet the main road, but it was clear that the force they were chasing hadn’t continued to follow it. The branches to their left had been chopped to pieces, a messy trail hacked into the forest.

Clover had been right to bring them this way.

Qrow examined the tracks leading into the forest. “At least a full company, maybe more.” They’d made no effort to hide their passage - they’d clearly had no fear of pursuit. The wounds they’d left in the trees had mostly dried, sap no longer seeping from them, but they were still relatively tacky when Clover tapped them with a finger.

“They came through this morning,” Clover said. “We’re catching up.” They’d seen no sign of a campsite on the road, which meant the witch’s forces were likely pushing hard. The fatigue Clover was feeling seemed like less of a handicap. But as he was about to plunge into the forest, Qrow stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"We're not alone."

Clover paused, but he heard only the sound of the wind moving through the trees. It took him a moment to realize that the silence was what Qrow had noticed; they'd travelled far enough from the land scorched by the fire that he should have heard birdsong from the branches above.

There was another beat of silence, and then a saber came slicing out of the shadows between the trees. Clover let Qrow yank him out of the way, drawing Kingfisher as he spun to face a Grimm soldier who dropped down from the forest canopy. The man's eyes were the eerie flat red of someone entirely lost to the witch, and he swung his rusted maul for Clover's head. The clash of metal on metal rang through the woods as more Grimm soldiers emerged from the forest, their red eyes seeming to glow in the shadow of the trees. They fought rabidly, their strikes wild and reckless. Had Clover ever fought with such disregard for his own safety? Perhaps this had always been the fate of those that the witch deemed expendable. Clover could easily take advantage of the gaps in their guard, but they were undaunted even by dire wounds, throwing themselves at him relentlessly until he was back to back with Qrow. For a breathless moment, they were pressed together, and Clover could feel the muscles in the other man’s shoulders moving to deal a devastating blow with his greatsword. And then the soldier pushing Clover back grinned and howled, his body contorting into that of a massive wolf. As the howl continued, Clover heard answering cries rising from the forest around him. He struggled to push away the wolf's lunging bite as three more of the masked beasts erupted from the forest, escorted by several more soldiers in human form. Most of them were brandishing variations on the same shoddy weapons held by the soldiers they'd fought the night before, but there were two archers in their ranks wielding powerful-looking longbows.

As the reinforcements rushed in, Clover thrust Kingfisher into the wolf-soldier, silencing his howling at last. Death was the only sanctuary he could offer these soldiers, but the knowing that it was the truth did not make it any more palatable. As the beast fell from his sword, the remaining wolves bounded forward to press the attack, leaving Clover with only a glimpse of one of the archers bringing her bow to full draw before he was overrun.

Clover dived as the archer's arrow flew, rolling away from the wolves and into the cover of the trees. Before he could rise, one of the wolves leaped on him, pinning his shoulders to the ground. Clover wrenched his head to the side to avoid the first snap of its jaws and pulled both legs under its body, delivering a sharp kick to its belly. The wolf yelped and tumbled off of him and into its fellows, raking its claws across Clover's midsection as it went. The uniform tunic was thick and sturdy, and Clover was unharmed as he put a tree at his back and scrambled to his feet. As soon as he was upright, he was forced to duck down again to avoid the shortsword thrusting toward his chest. The strike was awkward, as the soldier had to reach over the wolves to make it, and Clover knocked his forearm against hers, sending the shortsword clattering to the ground. One of the wolves took advantage of his overextension and clamped its slavering jaws around Kingfisher, but Clover anticipated the creature’s attempt to rip the blade away and slashed it free. The wolf gurgled as blood spewed from its mouth, falling back and revealing one of the archers lining up another shot.

Clover was surrounded, with nowhere to dodge. With her solid red eyes, it was impossible to tell precisely where the archer was aiming, but he had no doubt that she'd take whatever shot presented itself. As she drew, Clover remembered how Penny had navigated the forest the night before and jumped, grabbing a low hanging branch above. A broadheaded arrow sunk deep into the tree where his chest had been as he pulled himself up and away from the snapping teeth of the two remaining wolves.

As the archers strung new arrows, Clover swung over his four-legged assailants, falling onto one of the human soldiers surrounding Qrow and clubbing his skull with the hilt of Kingfisher. He dropped like a stone, and Clover sidestepped the strike Qrow had been aiming for him before he fell. Clover continued the motion into a spin, taking a position that blocked the huntsman from the line of sight of the archers. 

Qrow's face was impassive in battle, his gaze trained on his opponent with deadly focus. As Clover used Kingfisher to dispatch another of the soldiers, Qrow's gaze flickered to meet his and the huntsman's stoic expression suddenly morphed into fear.

“Get down!” the huntsman shouted, and Clover hit the ground immediately, grateful for the warning as he felt another arrow whiz over his head. He jumped back to his feet and parried a strike coming towards Qrow’s head. The huntsman didn’t seem to have noticed the incoming blow; he’d dropped his blade, and as Clover followed the line of his gaze and he saw the arrow he’d dodged embedded in the other man’s thigh. Qrow’s hands clutched convulsively for the hilt of a sword that was no longer there, and then his leg buckled. As he collapsed to the ground, the shaft of the arrow caught in the earth and snapped with a horribly sharp sound. The blood drained from Qrow's face and he let out a strangled sob, his hands going to stabilize the remains of the arrow shaft.

Clover felt frozen, even as he moved instinctively to turn aside another attack aimed for the downed huntsman. Qrow was deathly pale, breathing heavily as he tried to pull himself away from the soldiers and further into the cover of the trees. Though Qrow had incapacitated most of the Grimm soldiers that had engaged him, one was still standing, the one Clover had disarmed earlier. She grinned, her confidence seemingly bolstered by the archers reinforcing them from the road and the two remaining wolves. One of the growling creatures leapt for Qrow, and Clover reached down and jerked the huntsman out of the wolf's path, helpless frustration twisting his heart as Qrow let out a stifled cry of pain. Clover skewered the beast with one clean thrust, letting his fury drive his blade. 

As he withdrew Kingfisher, the human soldier stooped to scoop up the huntsman’s abandoned greatsword. The soldier grinned and lifted the huge blade over her head with two hands. Swinging Qrow's greatsword with all her might, the soldier cackled, revelling in her own destruction even as the strike missed and the blade sunk into the tree next to the one at Clover's back. It sheared off several thick branches before sticking in the dense heartwood. The woman's laughter died as she struggled to free it, and Clover took the opportunity to slay the final wolf, sinking Kingfisher into the creature's back as it swiped at his chest. The wolf yowled in pain as Clover pulled his sword free, and then a hand closed around his ankle and dragged his foot forward. Clover skidded for a moment before his heel caught on protruding root, and an arrow whistled over his shoulder to further wound the tree behind him. He looked down and Qrow released his grip, his face white with effort.

"Archers..." the other man panted. "Pay attention."

In the time it took for Clover to regain his balance, the archer who'd just fired reached for another arrow and the woman wielding Qrow's greatsword wrenched it from the tree. As the wood splintered and gave way, she seemed to notice for the first time the extent to which her black-furred comrades had been routed. Her flat red eyes flickered, just for a moment, before she lurched forward into a hasty lunge. Not used to the weight of her new weapon, she faltered as the point dipped. The loss of balance pulled her into the path of another arrow, and it punched into her shoulder with a meaty thwack. As she reeled back with the impact, Clover plucked Qrow's greatsword from her unresisting hand.

The blade was lighter than he'd expected, and incredibly well balanced; he hadn't really understood until this moment how Qrow was able to move it so quickly. It was less versatile than Kingfisher, but it held none of the same memories of destruction, and Clover almost felt lighter carrying it. He had been proud of his skills, once.

And the sword was fast; as one of the archers loosed another arrow, Clover slashed the greatsword through the air to knock it aside before it could strike. The woman he'd taken it from made to tackle him and he pushed her to the ground. She fell almost without resistance, her body curling to protect the arrow wound in her shoulder. For a moment she struggled to rise, before her injury seemed to overcome here and she collapsed bonelessly among the treeroots.

Clover looked toward the archers, Kingfisher in one hand and Qrow's greatsword in the other, and they fumbled for the flimsy looking swords on their belts. 

And Clover knew that their minds were not their own, and if he had known any way to reproduce the reprieve that had been granted to him he would have offered it, but this was the insidious evil of the witch. To kill them was terribly unjust, but to let them go free would be to risk further harm to Qrow.

Their blood was just a shade darker than their eyes.

When Clover turned away, he saw that Qrow was upright, using the trunk of a tree to support himself where his injured leg could not. Blood was seeping into his uniform trousers, the verdant green wool gone dull brown.

"Come on." The huntsman's voice was ragged. "Let's get going."

"You're in no position to go anywhere," Clover said incredulously. Qrow's frown hardened and he tried to take a step. For a moment, he balanced precariously on his good leg, but as he gingerly set down his left foot his face contorted with pain. Panting harshly, he subsided back against the tree, glaring at Clover.

"Take it out," he said through gritted teeth.

Clover didn't know much about field medicine, but he knew he wasn't pulling the arrow without any way to bandage the wound. The other man was injured, clearly not thinking straight, so Clover strove to keep his response below a shout.

"I am not letting you bleed out on the forest floor."

"Then what do you suggest?" Qrow demanded angrily. "We've wasted enough time already!"

He was right; as they stood here talking, those they cared about drew ever further out of reach. But the huntsman was trembling with the effort it took just to stand. He'd saved Clover twice, and Clover was determined to return the favour.

"We need reinforcements," Clover said, trying not to sound too defeated. "We can go for help-"

There was a gurgle of laughter.

One of the human soldiers was still alive.

It was the woman who he'd thought overwhelmed by her wounds, the arrow that pierced her shoulder shivering as she chuckled wetly.

"You." Qrow slid onto his good knee to kneel over her. "You're going to talk."

"You think you can defeat her," the woman said rapturously, her red eyes shining. "You cannot."

"Where is the witch?" Qrow demanded, fisting a hand into the collar of the soldier's black uniform and yanking her upward. The woman choked, her good hand slapping ineffectually at the huntsman's arm.

"Qrow." Clover hurried to cross the distance between them. "She won't know anything. She isn't in control."

"She was part of this!" The huntsman's voice was shaking. "She knows where they're taking them!" 

Clover reached down to ease the Qrow's grip on the soldier.

"We might be able to help you," he said, trying not to flinch as the woman's red eyes bored into him.

"Gods damn you both," she snarled. Freed of Qrow's grasp, she pushed up suddenly with her good arm. Before Clover understood what she intended, she had dragged her neck along Kingfisher's blade.

As the woman fell back, the spark of anger fading from her eyes, Qrow rounded on Clover.

"She had information!"

"She didn't know anything," Clover said. 

"You can't know that." Qrow seemed to be trying to convince himself more than Clover. "How could you know that?"

"Because it takes years!" Clover shouted. "Years of fighting and clawing your way out of the witch's head!"

And that had been such a stupid thing to say, because Clover hadn't known Qrow long but it was long enough to know that the huntsman wasn't a fool. He could see the other man putting the pieces together and resisted the urge to lean away from the fury in his expression. Even filled the anger, his red eyes were so different from the glassy crimson orbs of the Grimm soldiers littering the ground.

"You said you met Ironwood in Mistral," Qrow said with deadly calm. "He brought you back here. Refused to tell us what had happened on his mission."

Clover wanted nothing more than to flee into the forest, but he couldn't leave Qrow here, injured and alone. 

"Oz swore," Qrow said. "He said she could never be freed from the witch. But you-"

Clover didn't know how to explain that he hadn't done it on purpose, that he'd never expected to be rescued. That only luck and Ironwood had made it possible. There was red ebbing at the edges of his mind.

"Whoever you lost-"

"Not. Lost." Qrow pointed an accusing finger at Clover. "We knew exactly where she was and Oz said we couldn't save her. But he knew, all along, knew that you had escaped."

"I didn't escape!" Clover snapped. "I was almost killed!"

Qrow's anger drained away in an instant, his expression now painted with apprehension. But the red was rising in Clover, an inescapable tide of promised oblivion. Of no longer being responsible for his own choices.

"Maybe Ironwood didn't tell you what he found during his mission to the witch's camp in Mistral because it was just me," Clover said vehemently. "Because she'd known he was coming and left me to kill him. And it was only the worst kind of luck that he managed to miss my heart when he stabbed me." He took a step towards the huntsman, and the pang he felt when the other man slid back was quickly swallowed by the rejoicing red. "Because living meant remembering everything I'd done for the witch."

And in that moment, the red receded, and Clover saw himself as if from without, looming over the fallen huntsman and brandishing two swords. What he did now was not the witch's doing. This was him.

Qrow looked horrified, and rightfully so. Clover had let the huntsman believe that he could be useful when he was, at best, a dangerous liability.

He dropped Qrow's greatsword and let his feet carry him into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a week late! Working from home got my RSI acting up and I physically couldn't write for a while. I also ended up doing a lot with this chapter I hadn't intended to, but I think I'm happy with where it landed.


	8. Eight for a Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I no longer have any idea how to tag this, lmk if I missed anything and thanks for reading :)

As Clover fled, he found himself moving ever more quickly, as if he could outstrip the memory of the horrified expression painted across Qrow's face. The image of the huntsman was seared into his mind: the other man's pinched brow and widened eyes, his lips just parting to deliver a condemnation. Clover couldn't stop seeing Qrow, couldn't stop feeling the piercing terror that had sunk its claws around his heart. The trees that had once seemed pleasant shelter now drew cramped and close, their leafy canopy blotting out the darkening sky overhead. As Clover ran faster, the first drops of rain began to fall.

He tried to focus on the water, the cool trickles sliding down his neck and under the now over-warm uniform tunic. Running through it felt freeing; no one could judge him if they could not catch him. He was anchored by the beat of his booted feet striking the wet earth, the slap of damp branches against his shoulders. He reached for the pin at his collar, clamping his hand around it until the shape was impressed upon his palm.

And though his flight had succeeded in banishing the image of the huntsman, the red-eyed soldiers he'd slain rose up in Qrow's place. Clover had known the truth of their innocence and had cut them down anyway. He gripped the clover pin tighter, but the pain of the metal digging deeper didn't feel grounding anymore, it felt like an admonition.

Even in control of his own mind, Clover was no better than he'd been in service to the witch.

Perhaps this was what she did. Perhaps her magic wasn't controlling at all: perhaps she simply found the parts of you best suited to serve her and amplified them.

Maybe Clover had always been capable of horrors.

He couldn't go back.

Clover followed the path of least resistance, tracing the trail that the witch's soldiers had hacked through the forest. He kept a white-knuckled hand on the hilt of Kingfisher, wary of another ambush waiting in the shadows. Fear twisted in his chest as he thought of Qrow, abandoned and injured in the rain. He would survive another attack, Clover told himself. The other man hadn't even used his magic yet. He would be fine.

Clover couldn't even convince himself.

Leaving Qrow had been despicable, a betrayal almost worse than lying about his past.

But Qrow wouldn't want his help, not now that he knew what Clover had done. Clover's best chance at helping Ironwood and the other farmhands would be to forge ahead on his own. If they reached the witch before he found them- he didn't want to consider it. Maybe he could find some way to replicate what Ironwood had done to him, but it felt like a vain hope.

He'd never asked Ironwood why he had chosen to let Clover live. Clover certainly couldn't have done anything to encourage it. But it had not been easy adjusting to life on the farm, and he'd felt that asking might break the fragile seal with which he'd locked away his past.

There was no locking it away now.

Clover had been running through the wet shadows of the trees for so long that when the forest opened into a clearing, he stumbled to a halt.

The mill before him must have been abandoned for years: long enough that Clover had never heard anyone even mention it, long enough that there was no sign of the road that must have once connected it to Pallium. The shingled roof of the mill itself had long since caved in, and the stone walls had crumbled under their own weight. Next to the mill, a deep but narrow stream ran through the collapsed water wheel. The once-strong wooden beams had rotted away where they lay in the current, and the rest were sprouting fungus where they were shaded by the trees that had begun to reclaim the land.

Despite the decay, it was clear that this had once been a place of serious industry. The mill was surrounded by a circle of ruined outbuildings: a couple of small cottages tucked up against each other, the skeletal remains of a tall silo, and several large granaries and storehouses. The clearing between them was much lighter than the forest floor, still packed with ground-in flour from the mill's years of operation. As he walked between the structures, passing in and out of shelter from the rain, Clover imagined he could still smell the dusty scent of milled wheat in the air.

The place seemed so profoundly deserted that he nearly tripped over the bodies piled behind the silo. 

Clover's heart leapt into his throat, but in the next moment he saw that the sodden corpses were clad in the black uniforms of the witch's soldiers. His swell of relief was tempered by guilt as he bent to examine them more closely; their glassy red eyes clearly showed their enslavement. As he inspected each body in turn, his confusion grew. They all bore crippling but non-fatal injuries, but the cause of death in every case was a clean slice across the throat. When at last he understood, he sat back on his heels, staring unseeing into the collapsed ruin of the mill. 

Lieutenant Cinder was picking up the pace. She'd cut down her own forces, presumably those wounded in the taking of their prisoners, to more quickly reach the witch.

And Clover saw that he had sacrificed Qrow in the same way. 

He couldn't be like the witch's servants; he couldn't abandon the other man. Let Qrow hate him, let him spurn Clover's help, but if Clover left Qrow then he truly was no better than what the witch had made him. He had a choice. That was the difference, that was what he hadn't seen before. He had done what he'd thought he'd needed to, but he had chosen to do it. Letting his fear of Qrow's judgment drive him away had been the wrong decision, and he needed to make amends.

Cinder's trail would be easy to follow; Clover could get Qrow to safety and they could use the wizard's resources to track down the witch together.

Clover tried to close the red eyes of the nearest body, a man with braided blond hair and a broken leg, but his eyelids were stiff under Clover's fingers. Cinder could not be too far ahead. For a moment, Clover allowed himself to look, to find the place where her forces had hacked their way further into the forest. But he could not follow that path. 

He turned back the way he'd come.

And so he did not see the shadowed figure emerging from the trees behind him.

He did not see the glow of the fire.

As Clover was about to step under the leafy canopy, a bedraggled feathery shape erupted from the trees, darting low over his shoulder. Clover whipped around to watch the trajectory of the crow as it darted over the toppled waterwheel and flew into a dive towards the woman with a handful of fire.

Her long black robe was finely woven, but the left sleeve had been messily removed, stray threads dangling from her shoulder and into the space where her arm should have been. The scuffed leather belt at her waist cinched the robe tight, and a slender rapier was thrust awkwardly through it. Her cropped hair was dark, her eyes as golden as the flames she held cupped in her palm. As the crow shot toward her face, talons extended, she flinched back and the ball of fire she had been poised to toss arced upwards, fizzling harmlessly against the wet stone of the mill.

Fury seemed to overtake her instantly, the cooly smug expression she'd been wearing vanishing in a heartbeat. A jet of fire sprang from her hand, but the bird dodged it easily, flapping behind the skeleton of the silo.

If the fire hadn't been enough, her quickness to anger made her immediately familiar. Lieutenant Cinder herself had doubled back to deal with him.

For the moment, the crow still held her attention; roaring her rage, she sent a torrent of flame from her palm, and the damp wood of the ruined silo was entirely engulfed in golden fire. The white steam quickly turned to black smoke as the remaining support beams caught, and Clover lost sight of the bird entirely. 

When Cinder turned back to face him through the rain, she was panting with exertion.

"You," she said, her voice heavy with contempt, "are wasting my time."

As she raised her arm, Clover dodged behind one of the cottages, and she unleashed a deluge of flame from her palm. Though he could hear the stone shifting, the ruined wall held up under the onslaught. Clover wasn't confident it would survive a second. He drew Kingfisher. He needed to get closer, to get her in range of his sword. With only one hand she'd have to choose between wielding her fire or stopping his blade with her own. 

Another gout of flame blasted the wall, and Clover rolled away as it began to crumble, the raindrops hissing as they struck the heated rock. He let the momentum of his roll carry him forward, but when he lifted his head, Cinder no longer stood next to the burning silo. He didn't dare stop moving, but her sudden disappearance staggered him. The delay saved him; his split second hesitation stopped him from stepping into the pillar of golden fire that erupted out of the soil in front of him. The surrounding earth was baked dry in an instant, crumbling away beneath Clover's feet and sending him sliding towards the inferno. He leaped desperately for solid ground, pulling himself away as flames licked as his boots. The position left him terribly vulnerable, and he expected Cinder to rain fire down on his head, but it seemed she was distracted again. The crow had reappeared, and was flying tight circles around her head. As Clover ducked behind one of the granaries, she let out a shriek of outrage; the bird had managed to tangle its talons in her hair. She snatched at it with a burning hand but with a mighty beat of its wings, the crow ripped itself free. 

The effort seemed to have cost the bird strength, and Cinder's face split into a ferocious grin as it flapped unsteadily away. As the crow picked up speed, she raised her arm and chopped it down. A wall of fire raced out from where her fingers touched the ground, hungry flames eating up the distance between her and the bird and roaring up in its path.

Clover flinched back, but at the last possible moment before immolation, the bird changed into a man.

The transformation wasn't like those of the witch's soldiers. Those had looked unnatural, even painful. This was like watching water pouring from one vessel to another, a seamless transition that smoothly melded two physical forms. Even when the man had fully transformed, the idea of the bird remained in his narrow features and feathery dark hair.

Clover's breath stuttered and caught. It was Qrow. Somehow, the bird had been Qrow all along.

For a moment, the other man hung in the air - and then he began to plummet.

The sudden transformation seemed to have robbed the huntsman of the forward momentum he'd had in flight, and he dropped like a stone, silhouetted against the wall of fire. He made no move to break his fall, and when he landed he did not rise.

Clover's mind was racing, thinking back to his unlikely escape from the wizard's cell, to every gift the crow had delivered to him. His hand went unbidden to the pin on his collar, and he abandoned his hiding place, racing through the rain to beat Cinder to the huntsman's prone form. She seemed to have forgotten about Clover entirely; she was sauntering along the wall of fire, dragging her fingers through the flames. Clover sprinted up the other side, the shimmering blaze concealing his progress.

"I should have known," Cinder said, her harsh voice rising into the smoke. "Poor, impotent Ozpin and his useless-"

And that was when Clover dove through the flames and tackled her.

Every inch of him felt scorched as they struck the ground together, his skin so hot that he didn't notice the fire flaring in Cinder's hand until the flesh of his arm blistered. He pulled it free, gritting his teeth as the skin tore, and fire jetted up between them, glinting off Cinder's bared teeth and glowing in her golden eyes. 

"Enough," she growled. It was the only warning Clover got before more flames flared to life beneath her, licking up around her robe without seeming to touch it. As the fire reached his chest, Clover threw himself out of its path, and the heat of the flames lifted Cinder into the air. 

Though the smoke swirled around her, it could not veil her, and her eyes blazed with anger as she extended her hand toward Qrow's crumpled form.

"Stop!"

And to Clover's astonishment, she actually did pause, fire spilling from her eyes as she turned to face him.

"Wait your turn," she said, and the words crackled from her mouth like flames.

"I-" Clover was out of options. Kingfisher was useless against an opponent who could take to the skies when threatened. "I'll go with you," he said, letting the sword drop to the ground.

Sweat slid down Cinder's face, her expression one of flat hatred. 

"I think I do remember you now," she said. "What was it that Her Ladyship called you?" For a moment, the flames beneath her feet flickered and dimmed, and she dipped just a little closer. "Ah, right. Her little lucky charm."

"Please, listen," Clover said, trying to keep his anxiety from squirming to the surface. "You were looking for me at the farm. I'll go with you, just-"

"Just what?" Cinder pointed languidly towards Qrow, a tiny flame gathering on her finger. But despite her unconcerned affect, it seemed she was making an effort to keep the motion casual - the extended finger trembled, just a little. Clover pressed his advantage.

"Leave him alive," Clover said. Gods, let Qrow still be alive, he hadn't moved since he'd fallen. "I'm the one you want."

Cinder dropped lower still, her feet now nearly level with Clover's head.

"I have a counterproposal," she said, sparks whirling through her hair. "If you're so eager to come along, you can carry him."

Clover’s hopes fell. He knew she would want nothing good for Qrow, but he could see no other way to protect him. 

At his reluctant nod, the fire keeping Cinder aloft ebbed, and she landed heavily, scooping up Kingfisher as she got to her feet. Seeing the sword in her hands felt wrong, worse than when Ironwood had first asked him to take it up, and Clover turned away. 

A tiny golden flame scorched his ear. 

"Pockets," Cinder demanded, holding out her hand expectantly. She snorted as he passed over his much diminished collection, tossing the glass pebbles over her shoulder into the burning silo. Clover quashed his sadness ruthlessly. When he had worked for the witch he'd felt nothing; emotion had slipped away easily. He tried to recapture that state of disconnect now; he had a feeling he would need it.

As he moved towards Qrow, another little flame danced up in front of his feet.

Cinder held out her hand once more. "His sword first." 

Clover knelt next to Qrow, relieved to see the other man's chest rising and falling. There wasn't so much as a stray feather to hint at the bird he had been. The arrow he'd taken for Clover still pierced his thigh, now bound in place by an improvised bandage. Clover turned the huntsman as delicately as he could to unstrap his greatsword. Cinder took it, her nose wrinkled with distaste, adding it to the already unwieldy pair of swords on her belt. Clover took advantage of the moment to brush Qrow's damp hair out of his face. There was no obvious injury that had felled him, but his eyes remained resolutely closed.

"Get on with it," Cinder said impatiently.

Qrow was heavier than Clover had expected, or perhaps the frantic bursts of combat they'd endured had left him more exhausted than he'd thought. The huntsman's head lolled back, his long legs dangling awkwardly over Clover's forearm, but Cinder didn't give Clover any time to readjust before spurring him up with a spray of golden sparks that burned across the back of his neck. He staggered to his feet and took his first steps towards the forest.

The pace Cinder set was gruelling, and whenever Clover slowed to navigate a low hanging branch or mud slicked rock another shower of golden sparks singed him. At first, they were more annoying than painful, but as they walked on Cinder grew less creative, scorching the same patch of skin behind his ear over and over. Clover didn't let himself react, except to plod along more quickly. The rain had slowed to an unpleasant drizzle that was steadily soaking its way through his tunic, and the water beaded on Qrow's slack face. Clover didn't dare stop to wipe it away, but he tried to twitch the cloak that still hung from his shoulders to protect the huntsman's head.

The other man had come back for him. He'd used his magical gift to do so. And Clover knew he should be grateful, but he was only now beginning to fully realize what Qrow's transformation meant. 

When Qrow had first arrived at the farm, he'd seemed prickly and aloof, unimpressed by Clover. But he'd already known who Clover was; he'd been bringing him little trinkets for months. What reason could he have had for doing so? Had he been visiting on the wizard's orders? Having met the wizard at last, Clover couldn't think of a reason he would send one of his most valued scouts to visit an irrelevant farmhand. Perhaps Qrow had been acting of his own accord; despite being under the wizard's command, he'd thought better of his leader's orders and broken Clover out of the castle. That left the purpose of his avian visits all the more mysterious, but Clover wasn't likely to get any answers as long as the other man was unconscious.

His back was beginning to ache from the hunched posture necessary to keep Qrow's legs from striking the hacked and splintered branches that bordered the makeshift path. As the light began to fall, Clover allowed himself to hope for respite, but Cinder simply ignited a fire around her fist to light her path. When Clover's pace faltered, she sent a gobbet of flame to lick at his heels. 

He couldn't stop; if he did, he feared his strength would fail, and he knew any show of weakness might convince Cinder that it would be better to leave Qrow behind. So he pushed on through the darkening trees, Cinder's flame making his shadow jump and dance along the uneven path. 

He made it to the river.

They heard it long before they saw it. The Ash River ran quickly here, white spray sluicing off the rocks and catching the golden light of Cinder's fire. There was no obvious ford, not in the middle of the woods where folk rarely traveled. Clover wasn't sure how the soldiers had crossed, but Cinder didn't pause and so he didn't either.

The first step into the water was precarious, the stones of the riverbed worn perilously smooth by the rushing water. On the second, the current caught at Clover's ankles, and he stumbled to his knees under the uneven weight of Qrow's unconscious body.

There was a splash behind him, but the expected burn did not come; Cinder had waded into the river, her mouth twisted with irritation. She dug flame-hot nails into his shoulder and yanked ineffectually.

"Get. Up."

But Clover had been pulling on the last reserves of his strength for a full day now. The fight with the Grimm soldiers had been exhausting enough, and that was before pelting through the forest and encountering Cinder. There was nothing left to give. He sank further into the river, lifting his arms to try and keep Qrow above the water. The rushing current filled his ears, and he fought back an irrational desire to surrender to it.

Cinder's voice broke through the call of the water.

"Finally," she shouted. "Make yourselves useful!"

In the next moment, someone was pulling Qrow from Clover's arms, and he struggled to his feet, trying to keep his hold on the huntsman. But Cinder's fire was distant now, a golden flicker on the far bank of the river. In the darkness, Clover could see nothing of the people surrounding him but the unsteady firelight dancing in their red eyes. When they succeeded in taking Qrow from him, Clover surrendered limply to their rough handling. 

They dragged him through the river. There were stars reflected in it; the rain had finally stopped. Clover kept his eyes on the broken constellations his captors made with their splashing feet until they hauled him out of the water. There was a wagon pulled up to the river's edge, its wooden bed contained by a cage of metal bars and lit by a torch affixed to the driver's bench beyond. Qrow lay sprawled in one corner, his face wan, and Clover didn't fight the Grimm soldiers as they heaved him inside. The padlock on the door clunked shut behind him as he crawled the remaining distance to Qrow, and the wagon began trundling into the forest. 

The soldiers didn't feed him, but they did throw a water-skin through the bars, for which Clover was absurdly grateful. He trickled some water into Qrow's mouth, relieved when the other man swallowed convulsively. Though he hadn't woken, despite the manhandling of the Grimm soldiers, his rest seemed more natural than it had when Clover had been carrying him.

As Clover capped the water-skin, the wagon bounced out of a gully and Qrow's unresisting body bounced with it. Clover forced his aching muscles into action, gathering the huntsman into his lap before the other man's head could knock into the bars. He could do this, at least. He could protect Qrow until he woke.

When he'd traded his freedom for Qrow's life, he'd had some hope of outrunning Cinder, fleeing into the forest where she couldn't find them. That wish seemed laughable now. They were headed straight for the person Clover had survived so much to escape.

The witch's white face loomed in Clover's mind. Her influence was everywhere around him. Her red eyes looked out from the faces of the soldiers pacing beside the wagon, and her magic flickered in the golden flame Cinder carried at the head of the company. For so long, Clover had told himself to forget, to paste new memories over the past until it faded from existence. But he hadn't done enough.

The past marched him all the way through the forest.

Eventually Clover could keep his eyes open no longer and gave into sleep, but it was fitful and restless. He woke when the sun rose, his neck cramped. The wagon had finally stopped.

They had emerged from the trees, and drawn up on the top of a gently sloping hill that was covered in summer flowers just starting to open under the light of dawn. A meadow stretched away from the base of the hill - Clover had seen this place before, but usually from the road that wound through the field to the west. If he hadn’t known they'd been heading south, he wouldn't have recognized it now. The once peaceful meadow was filled with row upon row of black tents. It was the quietest military encampment Clover had ever seen; even the much smaller gatherings of Mistral soldiers he'd been part of had led to raucous celebrating as they blew off steam. Apart from the smoke of their cookfires, the tents below him might as well have been abandoned.

A smaller crop of the black tents had sprouted around the wagon in which he and Qrow were imprisoned. Their escort had mostly vanished within them, but Clover spotted the shadowy outlines of a couple soldiers standing guard in the forest. One blank pair of red eyes seemed to meet his gaze, and he looked down quickly. 

Qrow still slept in his lap. As Clover watched, holding as still as he could, the huntsman's forehead creased, one hand twitching to the wound in his leg. Clover adjusted the makeshift dressing a little, but Qrow's frown only deepened, and his eyes flicked open.

"Ow," he rasped.

Clover felt profoundly unprepared for this moment.

"I'm sorry," he said, and Qrow's eyes darted to meet his.

"Clover?" He seemed genuinely surprised.

"I never meant-" Clover didn't know how to apologize for his entire past, everything he thought of felt inadequate. "I should have told you what I am."

Qrow still looked confused. It was strange to have this conversation with his head in Clover's lap, but the other man didn't seem inclined to move.

"Are you- not Clover?" Qrow seemed to be taking the possibility worryingly seriously. Perhaps he'd struck his head harder than Clover had thought; perhaps he'd forgotten what he'd learned of Clover's past. But Clover wouldn't make the mistake of concealing it from him a second time.

"I should have told you that I worked for the witch in Mistral," Clover explained. Qrow sat up abruptly, then winced and curled around his injured thigh. 

"Fuck. Clover, what?"

Clover felt that Qrow's lack of memory was desperately unfair; talking about this made him feel vulnerable, exposed. Why couldn't Qrow just remember? As he struggled for words, Qrow used his arms to haul himself high enough to peer through the bars around the wagon.

"Where are we?" he asked hoarsely.

This was a question Clover felt more qualified to answer.

"Cinder brought us to the witch."

Qrow nodded heavily. 

"Knew it was a long shot, trying to beat a proper magic user," he said. "The witch must be really interested in getting you back."

Clover couldn't look at him. "I was very effective for her." 

To his surprise, he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"You won't be again," Qrow said firmly. "You're living proof that we can overcome her control."

Clover's stomach was writhing, and he swallowed hard.

"You don't understand," he said. "I never escaped what she made me."

"Bullshit," Qrow said. "Do you want to know how I know that's not true? Because you were the person who made it feel like I was coming home."

Clover had been about to go on, to explain just what exactly he'd done for the witch, but Qrow's words brought him up short. 

"And I know you never asked for that," Qrow continued, more to himself than Clover. "And I- when it started, it seemed harmless. I never meant to use you, I just-"

The huntsman seemed to be at a loss for words.

"You were like sunshine," he said helplessly. "Even when Oz had me doing his dirty work, even after I'd been neck deep in the witch's darkness for weeks, I knew I would be able to see you after it was over, that seeing you would make it feel worthwhile. And no one who'd willingly work with the witch could make me feel like that."

It felt as if something in Clover's chest had bloomed, as if he really was full of sunshine. He brushed his thumb along his clover pin, and Qrow's eyes followed the motion.

"I'd started to think you were one of the witch's spies," Clover admitted. "I thought she'd found me." He looked down at the army sweeping out from the base of the hill and laughed quietly. "I guess she did."

"I never-" Qrow looked horrified. "I didn't realize."

"Why me?" Clover asked.

Qrow looked out through the bars.

"The first time-" He paused, fiddling with the bandage on his leg and wincing when the arrow shifted. "Oz calls us scouts, but we're more like assassins. The first time, I'd just come from my first failed assignment." He glanced back at Clover, his expression oddly flat. "Have you heard of Tyrian Callows?"

The name was unfamiliar. Clover shook his head, and Qrow seemed relieved.

"Well, he's bad news," he said. "Let's just leave it at that. Fighting him was the closest I've ever gotten to not coming back." He stopped again as one of the soldiers in the forest shifted, but they didn't emerge from the shade of the trees.

"The first time I saw you," Qrow said, "I'd been flying for a day and half, and I just couldn't fly any farther. I knew Jimmy's farm would be a safe place to land." He paused again, patting down the pockets of his uniform tunic. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he continued. "You probably don't even remember - I was just a bird to you. But I landed on the roof of your cottage. You were sitting on the stoop, watching the sun set. And when you saw me, you gave me some of your dinner."

Clover did remember, barely; it had been one of the first pleasant nights of spring, warm enough to sit outside without his heavy winter coat. After the sun had set, the stars had stretched out forever. 

He hadn't thought anything of the crow at the time; the farm was forever full of enterprising animals looking to steal whatever they could get their mouths on. The crow had been unusually patient, waiting for Clover to rip apart his dinner roll before devouring it. But he'd never connected the interaction to the other corvid visits.

"Ironwood has plenty of spare rooms," Clover said. "You could've-"

"Let James fuss himself silly over me?" Qrow interrupted. "No thanks." He fidgeted again with his bandage. "Besides," he said. "Sometimes being a bird is easier."

Clover couldn't begin to guess what that meant.

"I never meant things to go this far," Qrow said insistently. "I just wanted to give you something to repay you. But then- flying to you and delivering you something I'd found became a way to really convince myself the mission was over."

With a lurch in his stomach, Clover remembered the disdainful expression Cinder had worn as she tossed the last of his collection into the fire.

"I lost your gifts," he confessed. "Cinder took them."

Qrow waved away his apologetic tone. "I'll just have to get you new ones." 

Despite their circumstances, the other man seemed almost nonchalant. They were exhausted, injured, and weaponless, but Clover found that looking at Qrow filled him with surprising hope. Qrow had chosen him, not just once in the fight with Cinder, but over and over. He'd chosen Clover to be the person he flew back to, and Clover was ready to believe that meant something.

An incomprehensible shout in the distance shattered the moment. Clover heard the quick beat of footsteps running up the hill. 

Qrow glanced toward the soldiers in the forest. "How many with us?" he asked urgently.

"Nine," Clover replied. He'd had plenty of time to count soldiers last night. "No sign of Ironwood or your nieces."

"They must already be down there," Qrow said as the footsteps drew closer.

"Can you-" Clover made a flapping gesture with his hands- " down there and check?"

The other man shook his head. 

"Pushing that particular gift too far is what landed us in this wagon in the first place."

Clover didn't entirely agree that Qrow was responsible for their current predicament, but before he could argue a grey-haired Grimm soldier crested the top of the hill. The man didn't have the distant affect of the red-eyed soldiers in their escort; he bent double to catch his breath, and when he raised his head Clover saw his eyes were a grey that matched his hair.

As the soldier straightened, Cinder emerged from her tent, looking terribly young in the morning light. Had she seemed so young in Mistral? Clover's memory of her destruction of Asteno was hazy, shot through with moments of startling clarity, flashes of familiar buildings succumbing to flame. Though he could recall the molten metal pouring from the blacksmith's shop in excruciating detail, he struggled to remember Cinder's face as she blasted it with golden fire.

Her expression now was attempting cool indifference and landing somewhere closer to irritation, which deepened as the soldier gave her a sloppy salute. He reported something to her in an undertone, and she transitioned into outright rage.

"Well then where is she?" Cinder demanded. "I didn't walk all night through a wet forest for you to tell me that you can't find her!" 

Despite the fire sparking in her eyes, the soldier didn't seem particularly intimidated. With a glance at the prison wagon, he shrugged.

"They said she had something to take care of," he said. "Watts is in charge while she's gone."

"Watts," Cinder fumed. Qrow had gone stiff at Clover's side. "The power's already gone to his head. He hasn't even taken care of the weather!" She chopped a hand toward the wagon. "How am I supposed to transport these two in full sunlight when I've only got only Grimm soldiers to work with?"

The soldier seemed to decide the question was rhetorical.

"Fine," Cinder growled. "I can deal with Watts. You get Emerald and put these two with the others. And then find out where Salem's gone!"

The soldier gave another lazy salute as she stalked off down the hill, then looked at the wagon and grimaced.

"Please don't try anything stupid," he said. "You do not want me to have to call Cinder back." As he drew closer, his expression changed to one of curiosity.

"It is you," he said, looking at Qrow. "Looks like someone's clipped the birdie's wings."

"Funny guy," Qrow replied, his voice flat.

"Appreciate it while you can," the soldier said seriously. "It's not funny where you're going."

The Grimm soldiers watched impassively from the trees as the man went to the edge of the hill and bellowed for someone named Emerald. A green-haired woman jogged up, and together the two of them pulled the prison wagon down the hill and into the witch's silent encampment, bickering the whole way about which of them would next report in to Cinder. 

Clover kept his eyes on Qrow. They were descending into a place he did not expect to return from. He would need all the hope he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feels they are here at last


	9. Nine for a Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to my betas for keeping up with my breakneck pace on this chapter.
> 
> This is a long one pals, strap in.

Clover shouldn't have been surprised that the witch's prison was far less pleasant than the wizard's. 

The wagon rattled on its axles as the soldiers pulled Qrow and Clover through the silent camp. Though the wind rippled the canvas of the black tents, there was no other movement, no response to the sound of the wagon rolling along the scraped earth path to the centre of the encampment. Clover could have believed it entirely abandoned if not for the way the green-haired soldier's shoulders were creeping up toward her ears. Though her clear eyes indicated that she must have willingly allied herself with the witch's forces, she seemed to fear them, darting anxious looks at the surrounding tents until her partner cuffed her shoulder and told her to stop. 

The sun was just cresting the tops of the trees when the soldiers pulled up in front of the largest tent in the encampment. The billows of black canvas gave no indication of what they might shelter, but they were painted with dripping red eyes. Clover was intensely relieved when the soldiers didn't force them inside. Instead, the grey-haired man drew his sword, gesturing for them to get out as his partner unlocked the wagon door. Clover put Qrow's arm over his shoulder, and together they limped into the shadows that draped the tent's western flank. More Grimm soldiers waited there, shovels slung over their shoulders, their glazed red eyes gleaming in the darkness and a circular pit yawning open at their feet. 

Clover felt his feet slow as he had a horrible premonition that the Grimm were here to bury them alive. He tried to stop, but he was already too close to the edge. The green-haired woman gave him a sharp push between the shoulder blades, and the red-eyed soldiers jeered as he tumbled forward. Clover landed in the mud with an ungainly splash, unable to right himself before Qrow was shoved after him. The other man slid into him with a grunt, knocking the breath from Clover's lungs. Trapped beneath the huntsman, Clover could only watch as a heavy iron grate was hauled over the mouth of the pit, the metal frame shuddering as it was hammered into place. 

The mud squelched as Qrow pulled himself upright, propping his left shoulder against one of the metal sheets that lined the sides of the pit. Clover got to his feet, shaking the muck from his hands. The pit was only just large enough to accommodate both of them; if he stretched he could brush his fingertips against the opposite walls. 

Too small; Clover's heart was thudding in his chest. He took two quick strides toward the nearest metal sheet, letting his momentum carry him up the side of the pit. His booted feet skidded as rust flaked away beneath them, but the move bought him enough height to leap and grab the grate above.

Before he could even begin to pull himself to the level of the bars, a thick black boot came down on his fingers. Clover released his grip and tried to drop, but his hand was trapped. Coarse laughter floated above him as the boot ground down on his exposed knuckles. Clover felt bones shift and the pain flared white until the soldier's foot finally lifted. He crashed into the mud, splattering the walls. His muscles were slow to respond as he struggled out of the muck, but he took another run at the wall, grasping for the bars again. He was prepared for the boot this time, swinging to a new grip before the soldier could stamp down. Clover pulled himself slowly upward, dodging as more boots kicked for his hand. For every inch of height he gained, the grate sank further into the soft earth.

As Clover's face drew level with the bars, one of the soldiers managed to connect with his fingers and he dropped again. His ankle twisted under him as he landed awkwardly in the mud, more pain to complement the ache radiating from his injured hand.

"That's not helping," Qrow said quietly, as the soldiers laughed above them.

"It helps me," Clover said curtly, testing his ankle in preparation for another run at the wall.

Qrow's arm fell heavily over his shoulders.

"Clover. Please."

Clover wanted to protest; the panic licking up the back of his throat was urging him to get out of this hole before it was too late. But Qrow's gaze was remarkably steady, and he found he couldn't wrench himself away.

He slumped down under the weight of Qrow's arm. Qrow shuffled down to sit next to him, wincing as he propped his injured thigh across Clover's legs. This close, Clover could see the fresh bloodstains seeping through the bandage; keeping it out of the mud was beginning to seem like a secondary concern. But there was little more he could offer; as they sat in the mud, the sunlight in that little grid of sky above them faded, grey clouds began to curl into view. Before long, a soft drizzle was falling.

They'd left Clover with Qrow's cloak, and he spread it over the two of them, but it did little to keep off the damp. Qrow was silent and resigned in its shadow, pain tightening his jaw. 

"They're just waiting for her," Clover said eventually, his voice dull.

Qrow nodded slowly.

"I've been in worse situations," he said, but he didn't sound very convinced.

"When she comes," Clover said, "don't let her put the crown on you."

Qrow looked at him quizzically, and Clover answered the unspoken question in his eyes.

"It's how she takes control."

Qrow nodded again, brow creased in a frown.

"I'd always wondered," he said. "Oz seemed to know, but he never let on how she did it." He tipped his head back toward the sky, and the cloak slid off his grey-streaked hair. "A crown does seem suitably grandiose."

Clover shivered, and it had nothing to do with the pervasive damp of the misting rain. Qrow's arm tightened over his shoulders, and he allowed himself to lean ever so slightly into the huntsman's hold. 

"Uh. You, uh, never told me the name of your sword." Qrow's voice was oddly bright. "A sword that nice must have a name."

Clover kept his gaze on the mud.

"Kingfisher," he said. "It's called Kingfisher."

"Like the bird," Qrow said. "The grey and white one."

"They're blue and orange in Mistral," Clover said. "We saw them all the time when we went fishing. When I got a weapon of my own, I wanted it to be fast like that." It was strange to remember how he'd felt about the sword before it had become so tainted by memories of the witch. The sunny days in Asteno had felt like they would last forever; the war was something you traveled to, not yet overrunning the country. "I worked with the smith on the engraving," Clover continued wistfully. "We watched so many kingfishers that summer."

"I never thought much about decorating Harbinger," Qrow said, pensive despite the rain dripping off his nose. "Too busy making everything else."

"You built your own sword?" Clover couldn't quite believe it. Watching Marigold forge Kingfisher had shown him just how challenging the process was. 

Qrow scrubbed at the back of his neck with the hand not resting on Clover's shoulder.

"I had a lot of help," he admitted. "I didn't know the first thing about smithing when I started. But I was determined to have something that was mine. And she's never let me down."

"I can't believe you got the balance so perfect," Clover said. "I wish I'd wielded it under better circumstances, but it's an incredible weapon."

He glanced over, and he was surprised to see that Qrow had turned to face him. There was water streaming down the huntsman's face, but his soft red eyes were clear, looking at Clover with an expression he couldn't read. Even here, drenched, muddy, and exhausted, there was something magnetic about his gaze, and Clover found himself leaning in.

There was a sudden screech of metal above them, and the grate shuddered. Clover tensed as the metal frame was hauled aside and a black-uniformed soldier peered over the edge of the pit, one hand raised to shield her crimson eyes from the rain.

"Which one?" she asked.

"How should I know?" a male voice replied. 

"Well it's not like either of them is a bird right now," the soldier said, her tone exasperated. 

"Get one of their friends then," the other voice said, and the soldier nodded, stalking away into the rain. Before Clover could disentangle himself from Qrow, the splashing of her feet approached again, this time with the sound of another in tow. The soldier reappeared at the mouth of the pit and pointed down at the two of them. 

"What are their names?" she demanded, as a broad-shouldered figure in a matching uniform stepped up beside her.

The other woman raised her head, and Clover's stomach dropped.

Elm pointed to him, unwavering. "Clover," she said, her voice low. Though she clearly recognized him, there was no hint of friendship in her glassy red eyes. She identified Qrow with the same dispassionate tone, her eyes sliding away from Clover even as he stared at her, still not quite believing. There was a bruise darkening her cheek, and Clover could see the rough scab of a half-healed scratch between the strands of her bangs. His disbelief was replaced by a burning anger. 

The soldier slapped Elm across the shoulders.

"Well go and get the birdie, big girl," she said. "We don't have all day." 

Elm should have shrugged off the other woman's hand, should have bristled under her touch, but instead she tipped the grate into the pit, climbing down it like a ladder. Clover stood without thinking, putting himself between her and Qrow.

"Elm," he said softly. "Elm, don't do this."

If she heard him at all, she gave no sign. Her expression was still flat, completely devoid of the verve that made her Elm. She stepped forward, and Clover put a hand on her arm.

"Move," she said.

"It's fine, Clover." Qrow's voice was steady. Clover didn't want to brave this pit without him. He tried again.

"Elm, please."

She brushed him aside with one muscular forearm, and Clover let himself be pushed. Any other guard he would have tried to overpower, but he couldn't hurt Elm. He watched helplessly as she lifted Qrow in her arms, more gently than he'd feared, and began to climb the grate.

The soldier at the top was tapping her foot impatiently by the time Elm emerged.

"I hate the new ones," she muttered, before pitching her voice louder to deliver an order. "Drop him, and put the grate back."

Elm's forearms strained as she pulled the grate out of the pit, and she dropped it heavily. The metal frame bit into the damp earth, one side digging deeper into the troughs Clover had carved out when he'd hung from it. Clover watched her face, but there was no flicker of life there, and she turned away all too quickly. The sound of her footsteps soon faded into the rushing sound of the rain against the canvas of the tents.

The other guard stepped onto the grate, giving it a few experimental kicks with his boot. Apparently satisfied with its stability, he turned his gaze to the horizon. 

But he shouldn't have been so confident. Clover was not going to remain in this hole alone while Qrow was in danger.

The wet earth wasn't supporting the grate as well as it had before, and Elm hadn't put it back carefully. One edge was now nearly parallel with the opening of the pit. Clover gathered his strength, and made a final running jump, catching the edge of the grate and yanking it down. It ripped free of the dirt, showering Clover with clods of damp earth as the guard tumbled into the pit and knocked his head against one of the metal sheets. Clover dropped into a defensive stance, but the guard was out cold. Clover disarmed him quickly, keeping one eye on the mouth of the pit as he gave the cheap metal sword a testing swing. No one else seemed to have been drawn by the noise. Clover wasn't going to waste this opportunity, and he clambered quickly out of the pit. There was no sign of the other Grimm soldiers; no sign of anyone at all. He hauled the grate back up, resting it on the churned earth before looking around once more. In the gray haze of the rain, the rows of tents seemed to stretch out forever.

And it was growing darker.

At first it was subtle, barely noticeable as Clover scanned the tents for any sign of movement. But the clouds overhead were thickening faster and faster, roiling up into ponderous thunderheads. The rain picked up, drumming staccato on tents, loud enough almost to drown out the splash of wagon wheels rolling through the mud.

Clover ducked behind one of the smaller tents as the sound drew closer: it wasn't a wagon at all, but a large black carriage, its gilded wheels standing taller than Clover. A sodden Cinder was perched miserably on the driver's bench next to a red-eyed soldier, who held the reins of a similarly red-eyed draft horse. The creature's sides were heaving with exertion, its coal-black coat speckled with mud all the way up to its braided mane. As they approached the painted tent, the soldier yanked sharply on the reins and the carriage jerked to a stop.

Clover crouched lower as the canvas of the painted tent rippled and someone stepped out. The man was older than Clover, tall and rail thin; his shoulders seemed hardly substantial enough to support the chainmail he wore. A handsome maroon surcoat embroidered with gold was draped over his armour, falling to brush the tops of his fine leather boots, and his fingers were dripping with rings.

As he stepped out from beneath the tent's awning, he lifted a jewelled hand and the rain slid away from him, as if he'd raised an invisible shield. Clover's eyes were so fixed on this display of magic that he missed the moment that Cinder ignited her hand. The soldier next to her flinched away as she let the golden flame lick up her arm, glaring at the man who had emerged from the tent. He smirked, stepping confidently to the carriage to open the door and offer his hand to whoever was inside.

A bone white hand reached out, and Clover's throat clenched.

"My Lady," the tall man said obsequiously. With another flick of his free hand, the magic protecting him from the rain grew wider, and the witch stepped out of the carriage.

Her skin was white; it looked as if all the blood had been sucked out of it, and it seemed all the paler against the midnight black of her sweeping robes. Her nails were long and pointed, lacquered a liquid red to match her irises, and a golden crown set with faceted teal gems sat atop her elaborate coiffure of white hair.

She looked exactly as Clover remembered.

"Watts," she said, her voice crisp and cold. "I hear we have caged a bird at last."

"He has been prepared to the usual specifications," the man called Watts said, dipping into an elegant half-bow.

"And the other? Cinder has said she did not fail me," the witch continued.

"There is another," Watts agreed, sweeping his ringed hand toward the pit where Clover had left the unconscious guard. "Shall I have him prepared as well?"

The witch tipped her head to gaze past Watts.

"He needs some time to think about his choices," she replied, her voice pitched to carry even through the driving rain. "And it will be nice to have a treat after I have taken the castle."

"As you wish," Watts said, and he followed the witch as she swept into the tent. Cinder trailed after them, entirely soaked except where the flames still blazed up her arm.

As the Grimm driver snapped the reins and the carriage pulled away, Clover took his first full breath since he'd seen the witch's hand emerge from the carriage.

He knew with a terrible certainty that he would have to follow the witch into the tent if he had any hope of saving Qrow. But once he entered, he would be exposed; he couldn't try to sneak under the walls and risk being tangled in the canvas.

He had the guard's sword; it was no Kingfisher, but it was better than nothing.

Clover approached the entrance to the tent carefully, hoping the sound of the rain would disguise the sound of his footsteps and trying to avoid looking at the painted eyes. He took a moment to steel himself, then pushed his way inside.

The interior of the tent was dark and hazy with smoke, the air heavy with the scorched smell of dark magic that Clover remembered from his time in Mistral. The space was dominated by a tall wooden throne, Cinder on its left and Watts to its right. The witch was draped across the throne between them, her hands resting on the intricately carved arms and her feet supported by the back of a hooded Grimm soldier crouched on all fours before the dais. 

And kneeling before her, chained to rings driven into the earth, was Qrow.

Clover took an instinctive half-step forward, and was brought up short by the witch's voice.

"So eager to join us," she said, looking disdainfully at his sword. "Surely there is no need for these theatrics."

As she spoke, she raised her left hand, and Cinder shot a jet of undulating golden fire at Clover's sword. The hilt grew unbearably hot in his hand, and he let the weapon fall, his gaze still fixed on Qrow. Clover had thought his greatest fear was being recaptured by the witch, but now he realized it had been eclipsed by one far greater; he could not let Qrow suffer as he had.

The witch rose slowly from her throne, her black robes falling into innumerable folds. She stepped around Qrow as if he were little more than an unsightly stain and reached out to cup Clover's chin in her hand. 

"My little lucky charm," she said, her tone almost warm enough to be fond. "You've come back to me at last." She lifted his chin easily, despite Clover's attempt to keep it level, gazing down at him. Her eyes were like voids in her pale face, the red irises narrow circles of colour floating on a sea of infinite black. "You are as delightful as ever," she purred. "But you will have to wait your turn."

"No," Clover said, but the word was barely a whisper.

"Leave him alone, you stupid hag." Qrow's tone was venomous as he tried to twist in his chains, but he was too tightly bound.

The witch's lip curled, and she turned away, as if Clover posed no danger to her at all.

"You will be silent," she said, her voice cold once more. "General, restrain our unexpected guest."

Clover's gaze shot to Cinder, then Watts, but neither of them moved. Instead the Grimm soldier stood, dropping into a bow as the witch passed to retake her seat. Clover let one foot slide back into a defensive stance, and prayed he'd be able to keep his hands steady.

But then the soldier dropped his hood, and all thought of resistance fled Clover's mind.

Red eyes stared at him out of Ironwood's lined face.

The last time Clover had seen him, Ironwood had still been tired from the frenetic pace of the harvest, his shoulders bowed by the knowledge that he would have to burn his family home. 

Those cares were erased now, his face completely blank as he approached Clover, who stood numb as Ironwood pulled his hands behind his back.

"I suppose an occasion so momentous does deserve an audience," the witch said. "But I will brook no further interruptions." She tapped her nails against the arm of the throne. "After all, it has been a long time since I subverted one of my darling's cronies."

Qrow stiffened beneath his chains.

"Ah," the witch went on. "Did you know her? She fought so very hard. She was so strong. It took me a very long time to break her."

Qrow was visibly trembling, with anger or fear or some other emotion, and Clover strained forward in Ironwood's grip.

"But I did break her," the witch continued. "And I can see you won't be nearly so much trouble - you've half broken yourself already, little crow."

Clover watched, horrified, as she reached up and gently lifted the crown from her hair. Watts and Cinder stepped forward, taking Qrow's shoulders and dragging him forward to the limit of his chains. As he saw the witch lower the crown, Clover thrashed in Ironwood's grip, yanking one arm free- but it was already too late. 

The crown settled heavily on Qrow's head, further flattening his rain soaked hair, and the teal gems blazed into stunning brightness.

Qrow screamed.

"Stop!" Clover shouted, but no one even spared him a glance. 

Dark fire blazed from the witch's eyes as she extended one hand toward Qrow. A roaring column of shadow burst from her pale fingers and slammed into the huntsman's chest as he writhed beneath the chains. Coils of dark energy sparked between the links, and they shivered with magic.

"This resistance serves you nothing," the witch growled, barely audible over the sounds of Qrow's anguish. "Your will is mine." She twitched her fingers and the shadowy column grew until the darkness consumed Qrow completely. The magic flew from her hand in an endless torrent, until finally Qrow's voice gave out.

The witch's magic dissipated like mist on a hot morning, vanishing into the shadowy corners of the tent. She raised one of her hands and Cinder knelt to unlock the chains binding Qrow. The huntsman stood easily, the motion fluid. His injured leg did not seem to trouble him as he half-turned toward Clover.

His eyes were burning red, lit from within by the witch's magic. 

"No," Clover whispered.

Qrow stepped toward him, his face empty, and took the crown from his head. Another step, and Clover could see that the blood trickling down the huntsman's forehead from where the crown had cut into his skin. Qrow leaned closer in a grotesque parody of the intimacy they'd shared during their imprisonment.

"Qrow." Clover could barely breathe. "Please don't."

Qrow brought the crown down on his head and the world went black.

Clover had expected pain; he remembered there had been pain, last time, but he felt nothing at all. He was floating, the air around him wet and cold. He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes and blinked them open. He was no longer in the witch's tent. The space before him was filled with a roiling mist that was suffused with blue-green light, and he was alone.

"Qrow?" 

His shout was oddly muted, his words robbed their usual timbre. And yet he thought he heard a call in response, so faint it might have just been an indistinct echo. He shouted again, but the fog ate his words and gave nothing back. The mist itself was so turbulent that Clover felt it should have made a noise, but there was nothing for it to swirl against. The ground beneath him was smooth black stone, and when Clover tried to scuff his foot against it, he recoiled in horror. 

His feet were made of the same mist that surrounded him, the fog settling perfectly into the shape of his boots, right down to the minute scrapes he'd gouged into the leather during his escape from the pit. His hands were the same; it was as if someone had solidified the mist and etched into it every crease and wrinkle of his skin.

What was he?

He had no answer, and was overcome by a sudden surge of dread. His hands grew momentarily hazy and indistinct, blurring into the surrounding mist. Clover swallowed hard and clamped down on the fear, relieved to see his hands solidify in response.

Whatever the witch had done, wherever he was, he needed to find a way out.

He took a step forward, mist swirling around his feet. As he took another, he saw a flicker of shadow at the edge of his vision and whirled to face it. The mist churned up with his motion, obscuring any hint of what he might have seen.

"Hello?" 

Some spark of light gleamed in the corner of his eye, and he spun again, but again there was nothing there. As he stared into the mists, trying to peer through them, he found himself spotting patterns in the clouds: a hand, an outstretched arm, a bird in flight.

Clover shook his head, trying to school his thoughts. Something about this place was tugging faintly at his memory, as if he'd been here before in a dream. But he wouldn't lose his head. He could not see his way to freedom, but he had to believe escape was possible. He chose a direction and began to stride through the endless mists.

He walked for what felt like hours, though it was impossible to know for certain. The light that illuminated the mist from within never changed, and Clover encountered no variation in his surroundings. The mist pressed close on every side, and though he himself was formed from it, he imagined he could feel the chill seeping into his bones. The flickers in the edge of his vision grew more and more frequent, but whenever Clover tried to catch them in his gaze they vanished into the mists. He kept his shoulders hunched, wary of attack from behind. His steps became hesitant, and his feet bleeding mist with each one. 

At last, he could walk no further, and he slumped to his knees.

This close, he realized that the ground he'd been traversing was not stone but glass, impossibly thick glass. As Clover gazed into it, he thought he saw distant sparks, as if someone had lit a candle beneath the floor. He peered closer, but could never see more than the barest glint of light; it was difficult to be sure it was there at all.

When Clover raised his head, the mists exaggerated the motion, boiling up into the infinite clouds. The shapes he'd thought he'd seen before seemed more tangible now, and he flinched back as a grasping hand bloomed out of the mist. In the next moment, it had dissolved, replaced by an elongated face, its mouth opened in a soundless shriek.

Clover shuffled back awkwardly as more apparitions surged toward him, their misty features always dissipating before they could reach him, but becoming more defined with each passing moment. They collected into a growing pile of bodies, all flailing for Clover with whatever they could reach. For each one he slashed away with his hands, another dozen sprouted, faces so twisted with agony that he almost felt he could hear them screaming. Desperate, he shut his eyes against the visions, curling his body on the ground.

For a wonderful moment, he felt nothing but cool glass against his skin. But just as his muscles began to relax, there was a very real tug on his cloak.

Clover's eyes shot open and he jerked himself away, his misty fingers sliding uselessly against the glassy floor.

The mists around him had subsided into gently rolling clouds, and Clover got unsteadily to his feet, turning to see what had touched him. At first he saw nothing but fog, but as he watched, the figure of a woman, hooded and cloaked, blossomed from the mist. Her form was sharper than those of the visions that had reached for him, though the edges of her cloak bled into the mist behind her. 

Clover backed away as she raised her spectral hands, but she simply pushed back her hood, the mist swirling in and out of her arms. It was difficult to read the expression of a face made of mist, but she seemed to be confused. She reached out a hand toward him, but when Clover recoiled, she held up her hands placatingly. She certainly seemed different than the other visions, but Clover didn't trust anything he saw here. 

To his relief, she did not try to approach again. She extended her slender arm slowly, and pointed to Qrow's cloak, tipping her head to one side as if asking a question. If that was indeed what she was doing, Clover didn't know how to answer. It was so hard to see her face clearly; there was something familiar about her features, but Clover couldn't place her.

She seemed to realize he didn't understand, and the mist billowed up around her, obscuring her entirely. Just when Clover thought she'd vanished for good, she burst through the fog, pushing it aside as if it were a physical force. Her face was clearer now, etched into an expression of determination. She planted her misty feet, still keeping her distance from Clover, and pointed sharply at Qrow's cloak once more. She clenched her other hand, and when she opened it, a misty bird fluttered forth.

And though the creature's edges were hazy, Clover thought he recognized it; something about the curve of its wings, the tuft of feathers that crested its head.

Somehow, this woman knew that the cloak he wore belonged to Qrow. 

Clover gathered a handful of the fabric and nodded. And then, realizing that he could speak even if she did not, he said, "It's not mine, but I'm borrowing it."

When her stare grew no less fierce, he added, "But he's alright." As he said it, Clover knew it wasn’t true. "Or he will be," he continued. "I think he's here, somewhere." He gestured to the mist surrounding them, and tendrils of it wrapped around his fingers.

This news had her looking crestfallen, and her body wavered, puffing back into formless mist. But in the next instant she was back, a deep furrow of concentration carved into her misty forehead. 

With one ethereal hand, she beckoned him forward. When he hesitated, she repeated the motion insistently, then turned and walked into the mists, vanishing instantly.

"Wait!" Clover cried, but she had disappeared completely. As he searched for her form, the mist on either side of him began to roil, and he saw the first hints of grasping hands.

Clover pulled in a deep breath and plunged into the mist after the spectral woman.

To his relief, after just a few steps he found her once more, striding purposefully through the mists. She was following no path that he could see, but she certainly seemed to know where she was going. Whatever this space was, it seemed to have no limit, no way to navigate it. And yet the woman pushed onward doggedly, her cloak spilling a train of mist across Clover's feet. After one quick check to see him following, she did not look back. Clover trailed along in her wake; whatever else she was, she seemed to keep the more haunting visions of the mists away. No hands reached to grab at him, no faces screamed silent terror in his direction.

As they went on, Clover noticed the mists beginning to withdraw, just a little at first, but then more and more, a circle of clear black glass growing around his feet. Though he was glad to see further, even if there was nothing to see, the form of the woman before him seemed to be suffering for it. The further they went, the more wispy and insubstantial she became. 

Soon the woman was little more than a vague shell. She slowed, then stopped, looking down at her hands.

Her face was barely distinguishable from the wall of distant cloud, but Clover could still see the sorrow written there. She could go no further without vanishing entirely. With one translucent arm, she pointed him forward, and Clover almost imagined he could see something in that direction, some different quality to the all-encompassing light within the fog. As he strained to see, the woman raised her other hand, her face taking on a look of intense concentration. As she opened her fist, the mist making up her legs flowed up to form a perfect rose in her palm.

"Rose?" Clover asked. He had no idea what this meant, but as he spoke the woman smiled, and her form faded away. This time she did not reappear: Clover was alone once more, and he began walking in the direction she'd pointed.

The disc of clear black glass around his feet grew and grew as he walked, until at last the retreat of the mist revealed that the light had never been coming from within the clouds at all. 

In the distance was a large circular pool, from which the blue-green light blazed as brightly as the sun. It was surrounded by hundreds of shapes, little more than the suggestions of people formed from the mist. Most of them were moving away from the pool, wandering toward the curtain of fog that encircled it. Their meandering paths took them around hunched, stationery figures, whose slowly dissolving bodies fed mist into a tide that flowed away from the pool.

Clover approached the pool slowly. His guide had clearly wanted him to reach this place, but now that he was here he didn't know what to do next. As he hesitated, one of the mist-people walked through him, and he shuddered as he felt his body waver and reform.

Clover did not recognize the faces of the passing figures and yet he could not shake the sense that he had been in this place before. He pushed his way towards the pool of light, nearing one of the kneeling figures: a man with his face buried in his hands.

At his approach, the man raised his head, and Clover drew up short. Unlike the other figures Clover had seen, this man's features were sharply precise - and achingly familiar.

It was Ironwood.

This was not the blank-faced Ironwood who'd restrained Clover in the witch's tent: here, the other man's normally implacable visage was stiff with grief. He did not seem to notice Clover. Even when Clover knelt before him, his misty eyes remained fixed upon the black glass, blank and unseeing. 

Clover reached out a tentative hand for the mist-Ironwood's shoulder, but his hand passed through the farmer's arm as if it wasn't even there. 

"Sir?"

Ironwood's head snapped up.

"Clover?" The other man's voice was faint. As his eyes focused, his expression fell into outright despair. "I've failed."

"Sir, where are we?" Clover asked. "I'm going to find us a way out."

Ironwood seemed to have already forgotten he was there.

"I failed them," he said hopelessly. Now that he was looking down at his hands again, Clover had to lean close to hear him. "I couldn't keep them safe."

"Who?" Clover asked. Ironwood started, and seemed to register his presence once more.

"Clover?"

"Yes, sir, it's me." Clover wanted very badly to be able to put a hand on his shoulder. Ironwood was supposed to be strong and unyielding, not bent and broken.

"You have to find them," Ironwood implored him, his voice fading further.

"We will," Clover promised. "But you can't stay here." The mist that made up Ironwood's body was flowing away at an alarming rate; if Clover turned away, he might dissolve entirely. Clover looked down at his misty hand, and clenched it into a fist. His fingers felt real enough. He reached out to Ironwood once more, thinking about all the times the farmer had pulled him back to his feet.

This time, he was able to grasp Ironwood’s hand. The connection felt unreal and hazy, but it was there. The touch seemed to breathe life back into Ironwood. When the other man stood, there was a hint of steel in his posture, though the effort of making the connection had made Clover himself feel almost blurry.

They continued toward the central pool together, Clover watching every face for any hint of familiar features. He couldn't help but feel that he'd walked this way before. 

He'd been here before.

The memory rose as they approached the pool, its light almost too bright to look at. The last time Clover had seen it, it had been dimmer, and he had been alone. Pain sliced through the memory; he'd been in such terrible pain, but that agony had held his mist form together even as it tore his physical body apart.

This was what had happened to the part of Clover that would have resisted the witch's commands. She'd banished his soul here, so her control over his body could be total.

And Ironwood had saved him. The grievous injury he'd given Clover had broken the hold of this place, shattering the pool and granting Clover his escape.

Ironwood reached out a misty hand, touching the pool’s surface. The undulating crystal waves stopped his fingers as readily as the black glass beneath their feet would have.

"No way out," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

That was when Clover saw it; a gap in the pool, an irregular empty chink near the centre that the light did not touch. Ironwood did not seem to see it; when he scanned the pool, his gaze passed over it without pause.

The sight of the flaw filled Clover with hope.

He reached for his collar. He was still garbed in the clothes he'd been wearing in the witch's tent, and that meant his clover pin was threaded through his shirt. He slid it free with fingers that shook. It felt real in his hand, solid and weighty for all its monochromatic appearance. He could only hope it would remain so when he was no longer holding it.

Clover clenched his hand around the pin. It would carry memories of pain, yes, but also his hopes for the new life he had seen just beginning to blossom before the interference of the witch. He could only pray it would be enough.

Clover threw the pin with all the force he would muster into the dark divot in the pool.

The pin lodged in the gap, and for a moment Clover thought he'd misremembered, misunderstood. Perhaps there was no way out after all. But before he could turn away, dark cracks spiderwebbed out from where the pin had struck, and the light of the pool flared with blinding radiance. Clover threw himself away from the edge as the surface of the pool shattered from below. Shards of the strangely rippling crystal rained down around him.

The misty void was silent no longer; a howling wind was issuing forth from the pool's empty basin. As Clover watched, some of the nearest figures evaporated under the force of the gale. 

Clover remembered this part now, the memory clearer than ever: they would have to walk into the wind head on. But Clover couldn't go yet; he had to make sure the others got through. He gave Ironwood a push between the shoulder blades, barely feeling the connection now, and the other man stumbled forward. Clover held a breath he didn't need, but Ironwood remained whole as he stepped into the basin. 

The light flashed and he was gone. Clover could only hope he had regained control of his body.

He waved wildly to the other figures, trying to catch their attention and direct them into the wind, but most of them were allowing themselves to be blown further from the basin.

The few that remained seemed more substantial than the others. Clover ran to a pair standing together, prepared to toss them bodily into the gale, and was surprised to see he recognized them. It was two of the soldiers the wizard had sent to guard the farm; the blonde and the one with the cat ears, both rendered monochromatic by the mist. The other two girls were nearby, standing strong against the wind that sought to disperse their forms. When Clover pointed to the basin, their leader nodded sharply. One by one, the girls threw themselves into the tempest, and Clover was relieved to see that each kept her form long enough for the light to flash.

The flaring of the light had attracted the attention of the other figures where Clover had not, and the more solid among them were turning, following the wizard's troops into the basin. Clover tried to search their faces, but as more and more passed through they became a torrent of mist.

"Qrow!" Clover cried, but his voice was weak, lost in the howling of the wind.

When at last the crowds were through, only the crouched figures remained, the mist that seeped from their bodies now streaming away even faster than it had before Clover shattered the pool. The wind was picking up and it was getting harder to move, but Clover knelt by each of the figures in turn, searching for features he recognized. He wasn't sure he wanted to find any; these figures were so insubstantial he didn't think they'd make it through the portal, and without being able to connect them to his memory he couldn't bolster them. But Clover couldn't go until he was sure he wasn't leaving anyone behind.

He had almost allowed himself to feel relieved when he bent to examine the final figure and saw a familiar jawline. Clover's heart lurched. Qrow's lips were moving soundlessly as the mist boiled out of his chest; there was barely anything of him left. There was no way he could brave the wind.

Clover's first attempt to reach the huntsman yielded nothing but a handful of mist. He tried to recall how it had felt to connect with Ironwood; he'd been remembering their times together on the farm. Clover thought of the first time he'd seen Qrow, stumbling out of the woods with a sword on his back. His next attempt to grab Qrow's hand was closer; the contact felt like he'd given himself pins and needles. He gritted his teeth, calling to mind their battles together, the seamless way they'd moved, as if they'd been fighting together for years. But it still wasn't enough; Qrow hadn't so much as looked at him. Clover clenched his fists. Maybe he hadn't known Qrow long enough to make this work - maybe Ironwood would be able to figure something out from the other side.

But Clover couldn't take that chance.

He filled his mind with every visit from Qrow in his bird form, every token and trinket the crow had delivered, every bit of Clover's lunch he'd stolen. And Clover allowed that first night to blossom in his mind; the hazy warmth of summer fading with the sunset as he shared a meal with a bird. 

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Qrow's.

Nothing had felt so real since Clover had found himself in this misty void. Qrow's lips were soft under his, and he could feel the other man's stubble grazing his chin. When he pulled back, Qrow's eyes were wide, his expression stunned.

"You're here," he whispered. "But that means-"

The pitch of the gale rushing past them had risen to a scream, and Clover knew they were running out of time. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Bringing Qrow back to himself had weakened him even further than helping Ironwood. He rose silently, and Qrow's brow pinched unhappily.

"Clover," he said. "I'd given up."

They didn't have time for this; Clover beckoned Qrow toward the basin, relieved when he strode towards it, leaning into the wind.

"What is this place?" Qrow could barely be heard over the wind, and Clover couldn't answer. He could feel the air tearing through him, threatening to pull him apart with every step he took. They reached the lip of the basin. Qrow needed only one more step to free himself, but he paused, looking back at Clover. His eyes widened as he saw the mist streaming out of Clover's body.

"Wait!" he shouted, as the sound around them rose to a shriek.

The portal behind him could close at any moment. Clover summoned the last of his strength and shoved Qrow backwards.

As the other man tumbled into the basin, Clover let out a soundless sigh of relief. He'd done all he could. His form felt fragile - only the strength of his will was holding it together. He would not survive the wind much longer. But he could rest now. Qrow in control of his own mind would be more than a match for Clover's body. They would be able to subdue him; he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else. Clover could let go.

The mist that had formed him began to peel away in the wind, and Clover felt nothing. There was no pain in letting go, just the promise of the void.

Clover closed his eyes - and realized he did feel something. Not the pain that had pierced him the last time he had stood at the edge of this pool, but something warm that suffused his entire being. Hope blazed to life within him, hope for the kind of future he had thought impossible since his time fighting for the witch. He'd spent his years on Ironwood Farm treading water, trying to hide from the memories of what he'd suffered. He'd let the fear of those memories box him in, limiting his choices until there was no room to pursue anything new.

Despite his best efforts, his past had found him anyway, and he'd been no more prepared for it than he would have been five years ago when Ironwood carted his bloody body out of Mistral.

But meeting Qrow had ignited feelings in Clover he hadn't thought himself still capable of experiencing. Genuine irritation at first, confusion and concern, but then a feeling of trust, of being understood. Qrow knew the most terrible things Clover had done and harboured no ill will against him, no fear that Clover would harm him.

Clover thought he could love him for that.

He stepped forward into the gale. Though he couldn't see it, his body felt whole, no longer affected by the wind.

There was a searing flash of blue-green light, and he opened his eyes into the witch's tent.

Qrow was holding him in a tight embrace, kissing Clover like it was the last thing he would ever do.

How could Clover have thought their kiss in the mist was real? It had been missing so much - the thud of Qrow's heartbeat against his chest, the smell of smoke caught in the other man's hair. He wanted this moment to last forever.

When they broke apart, Clover could see that only moments had passed since the crown had been placed upon his head. Ironwood was no longer holding him; he'd drawn his sword and taken up a guard position to defend Qrow and Clover. Cinder and Watts looked shocked, but the witch was nearly incandescent with rage. Shadow began to gather around her clenched fist as Clover reached up to take the crown from his head. It was lighter than he had expected, delicately worked in gold. He met the witch's gaze over Qrow's shoulder and abruptly twisted the crown.

There was a flash of light as one of the teal gems popped free of its setting, dissolving into a blue-green mist before it could strike the ground. The witch gave an incoherent shriek of outrage as the others followed suit, until only Clover held only a contorted band of gold in his hands.

"Do you know what you have done?" The witch's voice thrummed with barely contained anger. The light seemed to be fleeing the tent, the shadows behind the throne growing deeper with every passing second.

Clover did not know what she planned, but he had not saved Qrow from the witch's control to have him fall to her magic here. He stepped in front of the huntsman as Cinder ignited a golden flame around her fist and Watts raised one of his ringed hands.

A gust of wet air blasted into the tent as a scythe sliced through the black canvas wall.

The magic the witch had been gathering quailed as her concentration shifted, and Clover knew that this was the best opportunity they were going to get. He took Qrow's hand in his bruised one and ran for the tear in the wall.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as a torrent of cold shadow slammed into the canvas at their backs. They had nearly been too slow; Qrow was limping again. As they passed, Ironwood swung his sword for Watts; there was a ringing chime as the magician used one of his invisible shields to deflect the blow. Ironwood let the sword fall, grabbing Watts' undefended hand. There was a sharp crackle and the smell of ozone filled the tent as the rings there cracked in the farmer's grip.

"Stop them!" The witch's voice rang out. In the corner of his eye, Clover could see the shadows gathering again, made all the darker by a pulse of golden flame. He dived for the rip in the canvas.

The brightness of the world beyond was momentarily disorienting: the rain had abated, and there was something strange happening in the sky. The clouds were boiling away, revealing patches of clear blue. Shouts and screams were rising from the encampment; as Clover watched, a woman in a Grimm uniform fled a nearby tent. Two red-eyed soldiers emerged to chase after her, but cringed back as they were caught in a shaft of sunlight.

"Uncle Qrow?" 

The voice emerging from the chaos sounded surprised; it took Clover a moment to identify where it was coming from. Qrow's niece was standing next to the tear in the tent, a polished red scythe in her hand and the other three members of her team at her back.

"Ruby!" Qrow shouted to be heard over the chaos around them. "We have to get out of here!"

"The witch is here, we can get her!" the girl protested. 

"This isn't a fight we can win, kiddo," Qrow said. Ruby looked as if she wanted to argue, but at that moment the tent next to them erupted. A pillar of inky darkness ripped through the canvas, piercing the increasingly blue sky above them. 

"Run!" Qrow cried.

They bolted through the camp as fast as Qrow's leg would allow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	10. Ten for a Bird (You Must Not Miss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clover reaches the end of his journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok in my defense when you see how long this chapter is you will understand why it took so long to write.

The sky over the meadow was boiling as Clover fled the witch's tent, Qrow's arm slung over his shoulder. Ruby's team raced ahead to clear a path through the knots of brawling soldiers as those still in the witch's thrall tried to subdue the ones who had escaped it. High above the chaos, angry clouds churned against the dark pillar of magic, their fractured edges limned with a greasy purple glow where the sunlight had begun to break through. The strange cloud cover lent the northern sky a greenish cast that reflected in the blank eyes of the corpses they struggled past. Clover tried his best to keep up with the golden flash of Yang's yellow hair, but his gaze was constantly pulled to the shadowy column behind them. As he watched over his shoulder, a jagged finger of violet lightning reached out from one of the clouds, seeming to stretch in slow motion to strike the roiling pillar of magic.

The boom of thunder was immediate and incredible, rolling out and smothering the screams and clashing of metal that had risen from the encampment. The sheer force of the noise stopped Clover in his tracks, and the camp went silent in its wake.

Qrow recovered first. "We have to go!" he shouted, tugging on Clover's tunic. "Clover-"

A rising whistle slashed through his words, its pitch increasing until it was a blood-curdling shriek. Clover released Qrow's shoulder to slap his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to shut out the sound. His eyes were streaming, but he could see that the pillar of magic was rippling where the lightning had struck it, purple sparks arcing across its turbulent surface. The shadowy column convulsed and swelled with irregular bulges, as if something inside was trying to push its way out.

Just when it seemed that the pillar had stretched to bursting, the shriek was cut off by a sharp snapping noise. As Clover gulped in a ragged breath, there was a great ripping sound, as if all the trees in the surrounding forest were being torn in half, and a dozen beams of violet light split the column from within. 

Bone white claws followed. 

Clover staggered back as giant taloned feet shredded through the wispy remnants of the witch's magic and landed with two heavy thuds where her tent had been. A pair of bat-like wings followed, beating away the rest of the shadows. 

When they cleared, a dragon stood at the centre of the witch's camp.

Clover had only heard legends of such creatures, and had certainly never believed them to be real. But the winged lizard before him was terrible and undeniable. It was covered in oily white scales, its head and chest protected by thick ridges of yellowed bone. The force of its wing-beats had levelled the tents surrounding it, and as Grimm soldiers fled, the creature raised its reptilian head and roared.

A gout of violet lightning crackled from the dragon's maw, spilling over its fanged jaws to strike the ground around its feet. Thunder boomed and unnatural violet fire sprang up immediately, hot enough to light the wet canvas of the tents. The purple flames cast the dragon in their garish glow, illuminating the crimson underside of its wings. Clover stared, paralyzed with dread, as the beast ponderously swung its head in his direction. It had three eyes, black as obsidian with brilliant red irises: one on either side of its head and a third directly between its twisted horns.

The dragon opened its mouth, lit from within by arcs of purple lightning, and the imminent danger sliced through the fear that had immobilized Clover. He reached out for Qrow, and felt the other man's hand grasp his. 

They moved not a moment too soon; as they scrambled away, the dragon released another blast of lightning. Clover felt the impact in his bones, and threw himself forward, dragging Qrow after him.

"Too slow," Qrow panted, his voice rough. Clover opened his mouth to disagree, then felt the hair on his neck rise and lunged forward again. The dragon let out a spine-chilling screech and more of its lightning breath struck the ground where Qrow had stood seconds before. 

"I'm slowing you down," Qrow said insistently as he limped after Clover, his voice barely audible over the echoes of thunder. 

Clover pulled him on silently; he had no breath to argue, and it didn't matter if Qrow thought he was right - Clover was not leaving him behind. But even as he tried to help the other man forward, he felt Qrow's fingers slipping from his grip. Clover's steps faltered and heat flared across his back as the dragon's lightning set more tents ablaze. The flames painted Qrow's face in purple and gold as he came to a halt. Clover tried to tighten his grasp on Qrow's hand, but the huntsman was pulling steadily away, his features fixed in a grimace of pain.

"Qrow," Clover gasped. The breath he drew was hot; there were violet sparks floating in the smoke rising from the burning camp.

"Run," Qrow said harshly. There was something sharp and strange about his features. 

"Qrow, come on!" Clover shouted desperately. But Qrow took a step back towards the dragon - and feathers ripped through his skin. His fingers slid smoothly from Clover's hand.

When Clover had seen Qrow transform in their fight against Cinder, the change had been fluid and graceful. But his transformation now was a series of jerky stutters, more feathers emerging with every step he took away from Clover until at last a crow was flapping doggedly toward the dragon.

The massive white creature had begun to move in their direction, the force of its footfalls causing the flaming tents to shudder and release clouds of violet sparks. Its fanged maw dropped open and purple lightning gathered in its gullet for another attack. Qrow dived for the beast's face, leaving Clover to shout helplessly in his wake.

But before Qrow could reach the dragon, another shape ripped through the smoke - a second black bird, flapping furiously. The speed of its passage dragged the chalky smoke in its wake as it plunged toward Qrow, talons extended. 

The new bird fouled Qrow's flight inches from the dragon's snout, and the two of them plummeted as the creature unleashed another blast of its crackling breath. 

Clover rolled forward to dodge the lightning strike, ashy earth caking his shoulders. He let his momentum carry him into a run, sprinting beneath the dragon towards where he'd seen the birds go down. The beast shifted above him, and the ground trembled, but Clover managed to keep his balance. He rounded a flaming tent, eyes peeled for black feathers, but was instead confronted by the sight of a dark-haired woman kneeling over Qrow where he was sprawled on the ground in his human form.

The woman had her hands on Qrow's shoulders. There was a crimson blade strapped to her back, and Clover reached instinctively for a sword he no longer possessed. How quickly his old habits had returned. Despite his abrupt movement, the woman didn't notice his approach; her gaze was fixed on Qrow.

"Wake up, you fool!" Her voice was taut, threaded through with something that sounded very much like fear. Though its tone had been different when last Clover had heard it, that tension was familiar.

"Raven?"

She drew her sword faster than he would have thought possible, standing protectively over Qrow's body.

"You," she said, her lip curling. Her sword never wavered, not even when the dragon's wings beat the air around them and Clover staggered. Any moment now, the beast would realize there was something beneath its feet and they would be crushed in its talons, or scorched by its breath.  
  
Raven's scarlet eyes flicked toward the dragon's scaled underbelly, and her frown deepened. Clover had no idea how she'd found them, how she'd even known to look, but there was no time to waste finding out. He held out a hand.

"Raven. Let me help him." 

Her eyes narrowed, catching Clover in her assessing gaze. He was not sure what she saw, but at last she lowered her sword and gave a curt nod. Above them, the dragon let out a shriek of rage, and more lighting dripped from its jaws. In one fluid motion, Raven sheathed her sword and stepped into the form of a bird, gliding out from beneath the dragon on flame-warmed air.

Clover turned to Qrow, who had rolled his head lethargically to follow the path of Raven's flight. Black feathers still sprouted from the huntsman's cheeks, and his eyes were glassy and distant. He blinked up at Clover, conscious but clearly dazed. If they'd been moving slowly before, they'd be sitting ducks now. They needed to find cover, somewhere out of range of the dragon's breath, but there would be no natural shelter in the meadow. Clover hoped that Raven hadn't come alone, that she had some sort of plan. He tried to hoist Qrow upright, but the other man couldn't seem to find his feet. Clover wasn't sure he could carry him again - their time in the witch's captivity hadn't been restful, and he had gone so long without food that his empty stomach had begun twisting in on itself in protest. But Qrow wasn't going to be able to get clear of danger on his own. Clover bent to hook his arm under Qrow's knees - and then toppled as the ground quaked.

Clover rolled onto his back, trying to recover his sense of equilibrium, but a strong wind hurled grit into his eyes, buffeting him with irregular gusts. He reached out, between the blasts of air, and his hand landed on Qrow's leg. Clover threw his other arm up to shield his eyes and squinted upward.

The dragon was aloft, a massive white shape against an increasingly green sky, holding its clawed feet tucked up into its chest like those of an enormous and ungainly bird. With each flap of its massive crimson wings, it drove more air towards the ground, pinning Qrow and Clover down, and its screech of fury drilled into Clover's ears. Answering screams were rising all around the encampment, howls of pain and fear forming a discordant chorus of terror. But the dragon was still climbing, snapping at a tiny black shape that was darting around its massive head. This pursuit took it high enough that the turbulence stirred by its wings abated, and Clover could lift his head to seek shelter.

The dragon's tumultuous takeoff had flattened all of the nearby tents and banished the smoke, allowing Clover a clear view nearly to the edge of the meadow. He could see others staggering to their feet among the wreckage. The uniforms worn by the human and faunus soldiers were streaked with soot stains, and the black pelts of those in animal form had gone grey with ash. Although some of the soldiers were fleeing for the forest, others stood transfixed by the sight of the dragon as it lurched higher into the patchy verdigris clouds. Clover scoured the horizon for any sign of Ironwood, or Ruby's team, but the even dusting of ash rendered the distant figures indistinguishable. 

Just as he was considering giving away his position with a shout for help, there was a wisp of laughter behind him. He turned to see that Qrow was flat on his back, giggling up at the sky. 

"Qrow?" Clover asked tentatively. Qrow let his head fall in Clover's direction, fixing his red eyes on Clover's face.

"Farm boy like you," the huntsman said dreamily, his tone ever so faintly mocking. "Don't you know what a green sky means?"

"You can tell me while we get out of here." The dragon could land at any moment; already Clover thought he could feel the wind picking up. Helplessly, he cast another glance across the field - and when he turned his gaze north that he realized what Qrow must have seen. The green-tinted clouds that had been gathering above the forest were swirling together, and a hazy twist of wind was funnelling down toward the trees. 

Clover wasn't the only one who had noticed the weather - a tide was turning in the fleeing soldiers as those who had been heading for the hill into the forest scattered south. The wind pushed them on, swiping up the remaining tents as the tornado touched down. 

Clover had thought that his sea voyage to Atlas had given him a healthy respect for the forces of nature, but none of the storms he'd weathered had instilled a fear quite like this. It was clear that no one in the field was going to be able to outrun the twister: it had appeared so suddenly, and it was barreling toward the meadow too quickly to escape. And yet- Clover squinted into the growing gale. There were figures emerging from the trees, walking out of the wall of wind untouched by its ferocity.

He doubted that he and Qrow would be so lucky: the tornado must be another of the weather tricks of the witch's magician. Watts would surely be preserving the witch's forces at the expense of her enemies. But Qrow seemed untouched by the sense of impending danger. He propped himself on one elbow and smiled at Clover, the first truly unguarded expression Clover had seen on the other man's face.

"He's coming."

"Who?" Clover asked. There was no sign of the witch's henchman. Even those in headlong flight were avoiding them, keeping well clear of the dragon as it chased after the bird.

"Raven wouldn't have come here just to save me," Qrow said, his words barely audible over the dragon's cry. "Not unless she was ordered to."

It wasn't exactly an answer, but Clover knew of only one person likely to command Raven. He cast another glance across the field, as if he might spot the wizard himself crouched among the tents. And then, hope and dread battling in his heart, he turned his gaze back to the tornado.

It was so green - more than just the green of a stormy sky, but vibrant, emerald green, as if it had whipped up all of the leaves from the forest into a swirling torrent. As the twister ripped free of the forest and tore down the hill, Clover caught sight of a shape hovering in its heart, a human figure with glowing golden eyes.

"Qrow!" Clover had to shout to be heard over the wind. "Is that the wizard?"

He looked down, but Qrow's eyes had slid closed, his face pale. His skin was warm under Clover's hand, but no amount of shaking would rouse him. Heart in his throat, Clover looked skyward. 

The dragon had finally seemed to notice the change in the weather. With a mighty beat of its crimson wings, it gave up its pursuit of the black bird and shot toward the tornado. The wind put up considerable resistance, but the dragon had indomitable bulk on its side, and it hurtled forward as the soldiers below cowered in its wake.

This was their chance - Clover grabbed Qrow under his shoulders and hauled for all he was worth, staggering toward the shelter of the trees. There should be a stream somewhere in the forest; it emerged periodically to track the road to Pallium. Clover remembered it being shallow, but if the water ran deeper between the trees they might be able to drop into it and escape the tornado yet. He fixed the image of the stream in his mind, ignoring the streaks of pain that sang across his shoulders as he pulled Qrow along. 

The dragon let out a shriek behind them, but Clover didn't dare turn away from his goal, not even when a strangely warped voice thundered across the field in response.

"Enough, Salem."

The dragon let out another roar, but this time Clover was shocked to realize he could discern words in the cacophony of sound.

"You will not take this from me!"

"Salem, it is over." Despite their deafening volume, the words were almost tender. "Please. Come home." 

If the dragon replied, the sound was lost in the rising gale. The wind plucked at Clover's uniform, undermining his balance. He clutched Qrow tighter and moved doggedly between the collapsed tents. He was so focused on his destination that he scarcely noticed the other soldiers passing him by, and so he was unprepared when a hand landed on his shoulder. Only his white-knuckled grip on Qrow prevented him from dropping the huntsman as he turned to meet the intense gaze of Blake Belladonna.

She looked him over. Her expression was surprisingly kind but fell into concern when she saw Qrow hanging limply in Clover's arms. Her hand squeezed Clover's bicep, and he realized he'd allowed his shoulders to creep up to his ears. He relaxed them with effort, and she gave him a solemn nod before turning to shout over her shoulder. The wall of wind ripped her words away, but someone had clearly heard her. In the next moment, Yang was by her side, her mane of yellow hair whipping in the wind. She caught sight of Qrow's lax form and her face twisted with worry. When she reached a hand to her uncle, Clover felt an irrational desire to pull the huntsman out of reach, but Yang's touch was gentle as she pushed Qrow's hair out of his face. Reassured that Qrow was still breathing, Yang wrapped an arm around Blake's waist, using the other girl to steady herself as she lifted her left arm and loosed a heavy clay ball from a launcher affixed to her wrist. At the top of its arc, the ball shattered, and Clover was momentarily blinded by the brilliant green light that issued forth. As he blinked to clear his eyes, Yang grabbed his arm, shouting something unintelligible. Before Clover could call back his confusion, the air behind the two girls shredded, claws of red smoke ripping an oval of darkness out of nothing all.

Raven stepped out of the darkness as if the oval were a door, looking considerably more haggard than she had when Clover had last seen her. She shouted something to Yang, who frowned and pointed to Clover. Raven's mouth drew into an unhappy line, and she muttered inaudibly, glowering at Clover.

When Raven reached for Qrow, it took Yang and Blake both to keep Clover from pulling away once more. Raven glared at him scornfully, mouthed something that looked impolite, and dragged Qrow through the dark oval, which winked shut behind her as if it had never been.

Clover started in the direction of Raven's disappearance, but there was nothing to see, just a few scraps of canvas and more packed earth being whipped dry as the tornado approached. Feeling more defeated than outraged, he turned back to Blake and Yang - and the ground fell away from him as something huge and solid clamped around his chest and hoisted him into the air. 

He caught only a glimpse of Yang's horrified face before he was pulled away, dizzyingly high over the witch's encampment. It was a ruin of mud and tattered cloth, almost entirely abandoned by the Grimm soldiers. Figures in the wizard's green and gold had replaced them, with more still issuing from the base of the twister, emerging unscathed into the field. Clover shouted down to them, fingers scrabbling frantically against the huge talons that clutched him. The panic was eating through him like something alive, and he tried desperately to free himself. The dragon shifted its grip, and for a moment Clover was free falling - when the dragon's claws wrapped around him once again he found he was frozen with fear.

A sound not unlike laughter rumbled from the dragon's chest. The creature lifted the talons that held Clover closer to its massive white head.

"You cannot hide from me," the witch growled in the dragon's voice. She laughed again, a tense and angry sound. "Had I but known you would be such trouble, I would have had you killed when your little band was first captured." Her massive reptilian head swung from side to side, a parody of human body language. "Such a waste of potential."

The witch beat her leathery wings and they surged away from the encampment. They had flown so high that Clover could no longer make out the details; just a series of green flashes erupting over the field, flares of emerald light bursting over and over again as he was carried away.

Clover struggled to control his breathing, trying to press down on the terror welling up inside him. Perhaps the witch would just drop him, or order him killed. She would have no way to control Clover now, and she must know he couldn't be coerced into following her. He'd done such terrible damage to her plans, seeding chaos in her army. Surely she wouldn't allow him to live. 

When he'd been fighting for Mistral, Clover hadn't been too concerned about dying. It hadn't seemed worth worrying about. Death had claimed soldiers all the time: friends and strangers, allies and foes. Clover had reassured himself with the thought that if he did die, it would be in service to his country. But his time with the witch, remembered now only in flashes, had shown him death on scales he hadn't imagined, death simply for the sake of the witch's amusement. And Clover had learned that living could be worse than dying. In the witch's service, he had often taught that lesson to others. When Ironwood had rescued him, Clover had continued living, not for himself but only because it seemed that anything else would have scorned the man's astonishing effort.

But Clover hadn't felt alive. At first, working on Ironwood Farm had simply been a way to stave off thinking about the future. Clover had tried to bury his past, had pushed his memories deep into the earth he had worked. He'd vowed he would continue only to honour Ironwood's sacrifice. The seasons had turned, and Clover had become accustomed to life on the farm. And then more than accustomed - comfortable. But Qrow's arrival had been the spark of something new. His presence had forced Clover to reexamine how he felt - not just about his life on the farm, but about the possibility of having a future. Clover had found a home, and a family - and maybe something more. Gods, he hoped it was something more. Qrow had understood him like no one else had, had chosen Clover as someone he wanted to come back to. 

Qrow hadn't been afraid of what Clover had done.

Clover looked down at the forest below, the leafy canopy stretching out before them in all directions. They'd come so far already. The dragon was traveling at an incredible speed, and they'd risen high enough that the horizon glinted as sun light caught on the distant waves of the Jewel Sea to the south. Clover had never seen anything like it.

It was beautiful. Clover thought he could be satisfied with it being the last thing he saw.

With one forceful twist of his shoulders, Clover slithered free of the dragon's talons, the raspy surface scraping into his skin. For a moment he dangled from the dragon's claws, watching the ground hurtle past. 

And then Clover let go.

The fall felt nothing like the dragon's flight, though it was nearly as chaotic. Clover plummeted through the air, his flailing arms grasping instinctively at nothing. He toppled end over end, struggling to figure out which way was up and desperate for a glimpse of the dragon. But the trees were rushing up to meet him, and he only had time to curl into a protective ball before he careened into the upper branches.

In the dappled shadows of the trees, the fall fragmented. He reached out for a branch that snapped away under his weight - another reared out of nowhere to smack into his chest. Something cracked, his ribs or the branch or both and Clover was still falling-

A strong gust of wind caught him from below, slowing his descent. Clover lunged and wrapped his hand around a branch. His shoulder wrenched in a direction it shouldn't and his grip faltered, but the sharp breeze was buoying him up now, and he floated gently down to the forest floor. The breeze deposited him upright, but his legs wouldn't hold him, and he crumpled into the soft leaves coating the ground.

Clover decided that whatever happened next, he wanted no part of it. He closed his eyes and fell back into a wave of unconsciousness.

In the dark, Clover dreamed.

It was a dream he'd had countless times before. It had been a memory, once, but he'd dreamed it so many times he was no longer sure if it was real.

In his dream, Clover was in his parent's home in Mistral. Golden afternoon light streamed through the three small windows and filled the room, brightening the moss-green rug and the yellow tapestries hanging on the walls.

Clover was perched on a short three-legged stool, and his mother was teaching him to spin. He must have been only 10 or 11 at the time of the memory, but in the dream he always appeared as his present self. Whatever his age, the dream still managed to capture the bubbling excitement he had felt at finally being allowed to spin on the wheel, his mother's hands guiding his. 

His sister Marigold sat next to him on the floor, watching him jealously. Their father was trying to teach her to use the drop spindle that Clover had first learned on, but Marigold had no interest in his instruction. She had been at an age where she was always trying to keep up with Clover. At the time, Clover had been irked by her persistent attention, but the dream coloured Marigold's irritated expression with fondness. Clover smiled at her as he let the wool flow through his hand, and she crossed her arms and turned away.

"Clover." His mother's voice was calm. "Pay attention."

Clover looked at the bobbin and saw that his moment of distraction had left a bump in the yarn he was attempting to spin. He instinctively took his foot off the treadle, and his mother laughed.

"Remember your first time with the spindle, Clover," she said gently. "There will always be lumps. Don't let them stop you." She took his hands, now so much larger than hers. "Keep going."

And Clover spun, filling the quiet of their home with the whir of the wheel.

When he woke up, it was slow, only snatches of sensation at first. The whir of the spinning wheel became the rustle of wind in the leaves. There were arms around him: not his mother's, but they held him just as close.

"I can take him, sir," someone said, and Clover tried to open his eyes. The arms holding him tightened, and pain throbbed along his bruised ribs.

"I've got him," Ironwood's voice rumbled.

The other person said something in reply, but Clover was washed away by the ache in his chest. When he resurfaced, it was colder, darker. The air was still, and he was no longer moving. He tried to sit up and his ribs rebelled. He fell back against smooth white sheets and winced as he jolted his ribs again. 

It was dark, but the darkness was not complete: the faintest wash of silvery moonlight painted a flagstone floor, and there was a bar of buttery yellow light issuing from underneath a wooden door set in the far wall. As he watched, the light was broken by shadows and the door opened, admitting a figure carrying a candle. A possum's tail twisted out from beneath the woman's long white robes as she turned to face him, her greying brown hair pulled back into a bun. A pair of small round glasses were perched on her pointed nose, and she peered through them at Clover with a distinctly unimpressed expression.

"I am told," she said, her voice crisp, "That you attempted something monumentally stupid."

Clover drew breath to reply and his chest burned with the effort - all he could muster was a pained wheeze. The faunus woman exhibited no sympathy, but she stepped closer and placed her candle on the table beside Clover's bed. The flickering flame illuminated the room where the light of the doorway did not reach, and he saw glass-fronted cabinets filled with rows of tiny bottles. There was another cot beside his, empty and unmade, and the woman seated herself upon it.

"Broken ribs are the least of your troubles," she said. "You should be grateful the wizard bothered to save you, after a stunt like that." 

Clover decided not to argue. This seemed to disappoint the faunus woman, who looked at him critically, then sighed and retrieved one of the small bottles from the shelves next to Clover's bed. She held it to his lips, and for a stark moment, Clover wondered if he'd been recaptured by the witch. Perhaps this was a trap. But he was too exhausted to resist as the woman tipped the potion down his throat, and the bitter taste of it dropped sleep over him like a blanket.

The next time Clover woke, the little infirmary was orange with the light of sunset. Distant shouting was filtering through the open windows, rising above the hazy buzz of cicadas.

He breathed in and was glad to find that his ribs felt a little better. There was a faint smell of smoke in the air, and the aroma of roasting meat, and Clover's stomach twisted with hunger.

Cautiously, he sat up - there was a faint echo of an ache in his chest, but nothing like the pain he'd felt the last time he'd been awake. Upright, he could see the other bed now had an occupant, a dark haired boy curled up under the sheet.

"He insisted," a rough voice said, and Clover's heart leaped. On the other side of Clover's bed, Qrow was sprawled in a wooden chair, his booted feet propped up on one of the cabinets. The dark bags beneath the huntsman's eyes gave him a worn look, but he was alive, and coherent, and Clover felt his chest loosen with relief.

"Who?" Clover asked hoarsely.

"Oz," Qrow replied, tipping his head toward the other bed. "He wanted to be sure you were fairly treated. When he heard the rumors-" He caught Clover's confused expression. "They're saying you tried to ride a dragon. And- fell."

"What?" The figure in the next bed was small - surely too young to be the wizard. Clover looked again, as if the boy might have suddenly grown.

Qrow followed his gaze, and saw the bewilderment on Clover's face.

"It's complicated," he sighed. "I don't think I could explain it if I tried - Oz is the brains of this operation. That's how he knew you didn't suddenly develop a taste for dragon-riding." He settled back into his chair and shrugged. "I wasn't there," he said. "But apparently Oz went after you - wiped himself out pretty good."

"I-" Clover's voice creaked and he coughed. "I wasn't trying to ride a dragon it-" he struggled to remember. "It was her - the witch. She grabbed me-"

He coughed again, trying to stall for time. He didn't particularly want to tell Qrow that he'd thought he was escaping the dragon only to fall to his death. Fortunately, the huntsman didn't seem keen to push for the details. He poured Clover a cup of water from the pitcher on the sideboard, and Clover took it with gratitude. But Qrow's face had a strangely pinched expression, and he avoided touching Clover's hand.

"I only heard about it secondhand," he said as Clover sipped. "Apparently I have you to thank for getting me out." He didn't look entirely pleased about that fact, and he was still keeping a careful distance from Clover's bed.

Clover looked down into his cup, watching the water ripple as he adjusted his grip. Emotions that had been pushed down by adrenaline and fear were now welling up inside him.

"You were-" he wasn't sure how to express what he had felt, watching Qrow fly away from him. He settled on, "in bad shape," and hoped his words don't betray any unwelcome concern.

"I would have handled it," Qrow said stiffly. "But- thank you."

Clover could not let that stand. 

"Qrow. I wouldn't have let you go." he said firmly. "I didn't ask you to save me."

"But you deserved to be saved," Qrow insisted, growing louder as his reserve crumbled. "I don't remember everything that happened in that camp, but I know that I wouldn't have gotten out without you. I had the chance to try and repay that."

"I didn't get us out so that you'd owe me!" Clover said, shocked. "Qrow, I thought we were working together, and then you left-" Clover's voice cracked as his ribs protested the volume of his words, and he wrapped his arm around them. Qrow was looking wretched in his chair, his shoulders hunched miserably.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Jaune had wasted all his healing juice on me by the time James brought you back."

"Ironwood," Clover gasped suddenly. He'd wanted to press Qrow further but this was more urgent. "Is he alright? What about the others? Where are they?" He moved to swing his legs out of the bed.

Qrow reached out for the first time, pressing Clover back into the bed with both hands.

"They're fine," he said. "Clover, they made it out, they're fine, please stay in the bed." He reached into his pocket. "Look - I thought you might need to see this," he said, and dropped a handful of twisted pieces of gold onto the coverlet. The metal was flame-scorched, and the settings that once held jewels had been warped by heat. It was undeniably the remains of the witch's crown.

Clover found he was hesitant to pick it up. If it was here, utterly destroyed, that must mean he was truly free, but he felt dreadfully unsure. He turned to Qrow, who was watching him carefully. He wasn't sure how to ask what he wanted to know.

"Do you-" Clover stopped, then began again. "When she put the crown on you - did you feel like you went somewhere else?" 

Qrow looked surprised by the question, though melancholy still lingered in the set of his brow. He sat back into his chair, tipping it up onto its back legs.

"I don't remember," Qrow said, then paused. "Or - no, I remember being in the tent, and I remember-" He broke off, looking down at his hands as he knitted his long fingers together. "Clover - I tried not to."

And with a sudden clarity, Clover realized what had created this distance between them. Qrow didn't resent that Clover had saved him, he was afraid of what Clover thought of him. Clover clenched his hand around a fragment of the crown, remembering how the weight of it had felt when Qrow had placed it on his head.

"Qrow, you couldn't have stopped yourself."

Qrow looked up, and though his expression was tight he suddenly seemed terribly vulnerable. 

"You did."

Before Clover could respond, Qrow continued, his words coming faster and faster.

"You managed to resist and I couldn't even avoid doing the one thing I knew you were actually afraid of. I couldn't stop even when you asked me not to. And then when I failed I just - gave up. I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now." He stood abruptly, and his chair fell to the floor with a wooden thunk. The boy in the other bed shifted, and both men froze, Clover with an arm outstretched toward Qrow. They held there for a moment, but there was no more movement from the room's other occupant. Qrow seemed impatient with himself; he scrubbed a hand roughly across the back of his head, further tousling his already disordered hair. 

"Qrow, it wasn't your fault," Clover said. He caught the other man's clenched fist, pushing his grip open. There were red gouges in Qrow's palm where he had dug in with his fingernails, and Clover ran a gentle finger over them. "If you hadn't decided to help me, I would have still been trapped in the castle when the witch arrived. Or I would have left you behind and been captured by Cinder." He wrapped his hand around Qrow's. "But no one knows better than me that you can't say no to the witch. What happened in her tent was out of your control."

Qrow hadn't let go, but he looked unconvinced.

"Qrow, you told me that I could be more than what the witch made me do. You're the first person I've told about my past that hasn't made me feel like I was responsible for what I've done. Please let me do the same for you."

For a moment Clover felt as if he'd gotten through to the huntsman, but as Qrow opened his mouth to speak, there was a clatter from beyond the infirmary door. Whatever the huntsman had been about to say, he seemed to think better of it as the door slammed open and Harriet burst through. 

Clover's disappointment at the interruption was immediately swamped by relief. He had wanted to believe Qrow when the huntsman had said the others had made it out alright, but there was nothing that compared to seeing them with his own eyes. 

Harriet's eyes were glistening as she flung herself past Qrow, pulling up just short of the bed to glare at Clover.

"Don't you do that again," she commanded him. "Do you have any idea how frightened we were, when they dragged your body out of the forest?"

"Harriet," Clover said placatingly. "Keep it down." He glanced over at the other bed, but it seemed the boy could sleep through anything. Harriet followed his gaze and deflated a little.

"Well at least you're properly awake this time. So you'll actually remember when I tell you not to be so reckless again," she replied mulishly. She subsided into Qrow's chair as the huntsman edged toward the door. Before he could escape, it swung open again. Elm gave Qrow a wide berth as she escorted Vine and Marrow through the door. She smiled at Clover, and he was glad to see it even if it didn't quite reach her usual level of brilliance. They all looked a little haggard - their eyes sharper than usual. Clover wondered if they thought the same of him. 

Qrow was still shuffling away, and Clover tried to catch the huntsman's eye, but it was clear that their earlier conversation was over. Harriet and Marrow began bombarding Clover with questions about what had happened to him, and by the time he managed to get a word in edgewise, Qrow had slipped out the door.

Clover was feeling better, but he was in no position to chase after the huntsman, and he had questions of his own. The farmhands had been through a lot: the witch's forces had taken Ironwood Farm unawares, and though Ruby's team had fought hard, they'd been unable to prevail against such overwhelming forces. They hadn't expected the witch's soldiers to be able to take on animal form, and they certainly hadn't been prepared to face Cinder. 

"Ironwood never gave up," Vine said. "He tried to get us into the forest so we could escape."

"I had no idea he could fight like that," Marrow said, sounding awed. "Jaune says he used to be in the wizard's army."

Clover could see that this was news only to Marrow. He thought of Ironwood's secret armory, which now must be little more than a heap of iron slag. With a jolt, he realized that the others might not know what had happened to their home after their capture.

"They burned the farm," he said softly, struggling past his reluctance to be the one to have to share this news.

"We know." Elm laid a hand over his. "That girl - Cinder? She set fire to the forest to drive us out. She was so angry."

"They torched the house after they put us in the wagon," Harriet said, uncharacteristically quiet. 

"We're going to rebuild it!" Marrow said enthusiastically, wincing as Elm shook her head warningly. "Ironwood said we're going to rebuild it," he continued more quietly. "And I made him promise to teach me swordsmanship."

"Where is he?" Clover asked. He hadn't seen Ironwood since they'd fled the witch's tent. 

Elm shook her head. "He's been in command," she said. "Or at least - he's been working with that Raven woman. No one has seen the wizard since the battle."

Clover only just managed to avoid glancing over at the other bed. The others didn't seem to notice, and Vine took his look of concentration for concern.

"He'll come, now that you're truly awake," he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "He came to visit all of us."

"How-" Clover looked toward the open window, but from this angle only the castle walls were visible. "How long have we been here?"

Harriet had been tapping her feet against the stone floor. "A week," she said impatiently, oblivious to the sickening lurch of shock in Clover's stomach. "A week we could have spent rebuilding. I hope you've enjoyed your rest." 

"Harriet." Elm gave the other woman an admonishing look, and for a moment Clover felt himself transported to the breakfast table at Ironwood Farm. He coughed and the image burst. He tried to take another sip of water, but he couldn't stop coughing. The pain in his ribs felt as if they'd snapped into his lungs. The pieces of the crown that Qrow had left behind sliced into his palms as he clenched his fists around them in his desperation to get a full breath.

An unfamiliar white-robed healer bustled into the room, a potion bottle already clasped in her hands. Clover wanted to protest another sleeping potion, but he didn't have the air for it. She poured it down his throat between the coughs with practiced ease, and it soothed his breathing on the way down even as the world began to blur at the edges of his vision. The sunlight faded, and Clover fell into darkness again.

His dreams were fractured and incoherent - in some he was being held aloft in the dragon's claws, but in others he was the dragon, his lightning breath igniting Ironwood Farm. He tried to use his wings to lift away, but they dissolved into mist, his body collapsing into an ocean of fog.

When he found himself again, the infirmary was lit by the pale light of morning. A thick green blanket had been draped over his sheet, a surprisingly heavy weight across his legs.

The boy in the other bed was gone, and Qrow’s chair was empty;; Clover wondered how long he'd slept this time. 

He was alone. Cautiously, he swung his legs out of the bed, and was relieved to find them steady. 

When no one rushed through the open door to force him back into bed, he made his way to the window. As he'd suspected, he was once more recovering in the wizard's castle. The half open casement looked out across the courtyard, still full of temporary shelters. It was early, but Clover saw a few people moving between the tents, bringing food from the castle and stoking the cookfires.

"My home is theirs, as long as they need it."

Clover had heard that voice ring out over a battlefield - he'd heard it, magnified and distorted, in this very castle. But if he hadn't, he didn't think he would have found it unusual. 

"Good to have you back with us, Mr. Ebi," the wizard said. "You had quite a fall."

Clover turned. The wizard was leaning against the doorframe, clad in a green uniform and looking like nothing so much as one of his own squires. 

"Thank you, sir," Clover said. He wasn't quite sure what he was thanking the wizard for; he found the intensity in the boy's hazel eyes disconcerting.

"From the reports I've heard, it is I who should be thanking you," the boy replied. "The chaos you managed to sow in the witch's army gave us the opening we needed to overwhelm her forces."

Clover looked down at his hands. Someone must have taken the pieces of the crown that Qrow had left behind. But Clover could still remember how it had felt to twist the circlet in his hands and the sound the gems had made when they'd popped out of existence.

"I'm glad I helped. I didn't really know what I was doing." 

"Indeed," the wizard agreed. "And yet you must have exerted considerable power to break the witch's hold on her soldiers."

Clover shook his head. "I think I was just lucky," he said. The wizard was still watching him closely, his eyes narrowed.

"More than luck, I think, to escape her hold not once but twice. And to bring others with you - that was no mean feat."

Something Qrow had told him tugged at Clover's memory.

"Qrow said you thought escape was impossible."

The boy nodded. "I did. Salem has only grown in power since our first encounter, and before James recovered you we had never heard of anyone throwing off her influence. I had hypothesized that generating a particular field of magical energy might be sufficient to overwhelm her control, but there was no safe way to test the theory."

"But," Clover glanced down at his hands again, as if they might have started glowing while he wasn't looking. "But I didn't use any magic. I don't have any."

The wizard squared his shoulders, his young face surprisingly stern. 

"There is no other way you could have overcome Salem's hold on your mind," he said firmly. Clover must have looked quite skeptical, because the wizard softened his tone. "Mr Ebi. It is not uncommon that those with magical gifts remain unaware of them, sometimes for their entire lives. But that you have such a gift is indisputable. And with instruction you may be able to make proper use of it."

"You want to train me?" Clover asked incredulously. "The last time I was here you threw me in a cell!"

He'd clearly gotten too loud - as he spoke, Raven stepped into the doorway, one hand on her sword.

"Peace, Raven." The wizard lifted a hand and she retreated, scowling at Clover. He watched her go, his own features pulling into a frown.

"Is that why she's here?" he demanded. "To make sure I don't leave?"

"Mr. Ebi, please. No one is going to hold you against your will. In fact, as a gesture of trust, I will tell you something very few people know, so you will better understand why you must be trained."

The boy stepped further into the room, and moved to close the door behind him, but Raven was there in an instant.

"Os- Sir," she said urgently. "We still know nothing about this man, except that we have found him twice in the midst of Salem's army."

"The same could be said of you, Raven. Or of your brother. Suffice to say that reports I have received have led me to trust Mr. Ebi. And even were that not the case, you know that we need him."

Clover wondered if Raven's face could even form an expression that wasn't some form of glower. 

"I'll be right outside," she told the wizard, somehow managing to make it sound like a threat. She grudgingly withdrew, closing the door behind her. 

The wizard leaned back against one of the cabinets, catching a stray thread from the hem of his tunic between his fingers.

"Mr. Ebi. May I call you Clover?"

Clover felt a petulant impulse to say no, but acquiesced with a reluctant nod. 

"Clover. Let us be honest with each other. You do not truly believe that I'm really the wizard." The boy spread his arms. "I know I don't look the part."

Clover couldn't disagree with that.

"I haven't always had this form," the boy continued, "but I will not lie to you; magic can do strange and terrible things. And it is magic that gave me this shape. The change was...recent."

He must have caught sight of the horrified expression on Clover's face.

"You are in no danger of a similar alteration," he said, in a tone that was doubtless intended to be reassuring. "My situation is unique. But the shift to a new body has impacted my magical abilities, and at a most inopportune time."

The boy closed one of his fists, then flicked his fingers open. A few sputtering green sparks danced on his fingertips before flickering out. The boy's face took on an almost comical look of concentration, and a golden spark appeared on top of his index finger, flaring for a moment before fading like an ember. The boy sighed.

"My powers..." He shrugged. "They are not what they were. I fear they may never be again."

"But-" Clover tried to sort through the chaos of his memories. "I saw you, on the battlefield. The tornado. That must have been you."

The boy smiled bitterly, all trace of youth suddenly expunged from his expression.

"Salem and I have always brought out the best in each other," he said wryly. "These new shackles on my powers have tied them to her presence - would that the reverse were true."

That the wizard could lose his powers seemed too extraordinary to be true; Clover had always thought of the wizard as more of a force of nature than a person. It was impossible to imagine him rendered powerless. "If you have no magic," Clover asked, "then how exactly do you plan to train me?"

"I have forgotten more about magic than anyone now living will ever know. I can certainly teach you. And we will need your power to free the rest of the witch's army."  
  
"But I didn't do anything," Clover said, desperate to make the wizard understand. "I just-"  
  
"You overcame the control of a major magical artifact," the wizard broke in. "One that should have rendered you unable to reject the witch's invasion of your mind. And what's more you destroyed it - do you know how truly impossible that should have been?"  
  
But it hadn't been magic. Clover had simply - done it. He hadn't turned into a bird, or tossed fire at the witch. He had just done what he'd needed to do to keep everyone safe.  
  
"Clover." The wizard had approached him, still keeping one of the cots between them. "I see in you our first opportunity to truly defeat her. Whatever you did, she was powerless to stop it. She knew your value - why else would she have tried to make off with you?"  
  
Clover had been so focused on keeping Qrow safe, he hadn't spared a thought as to why the witch wanted to recapture them. He'd assumed her anger had driven her, but what if there had been something more?  
  
"Clover," the wizard said again. "She is _afraid_ of you."

Clover felt as if the ground had dropped out from beneath his feet. 

He had feared that the witch would come for him every day since the first he'd woken on the ship to Atlas, the ghost of Ironwood's sword still buried in his chest. Some days it had just been a passing moment, a brief shadow on an otherwise sunny day. Other days had been - more overwhelming. But never once had he imagined how he would feel if the tables turned. He had not sought to vanquish the witch - he had simply hoped to never be seen by her again.

"I-" Clover found himself trapped by the wizard's piercing gaze. "I need time," he said hoarsely. Time to convince the wizard that this imagined power wasn't real, if nothing else.

The wizard's face fell, childish again in his disappointment.

"A week," he said. "That is all I can offer you. Salem will be gathering the rest of her forces. If she successfully besieges the castle before the spring, Atlas will fall. We have an opportunity here - we must not waste it."

"A week," Clover echoed. "And you'll let me leave the castle?"

"You are not imprisoned here," the wizard said heavily. "Leave if you must. But know that I will ask you again before the week is out."

Clover remained in the infirmary after the wizard departed, watching as the people of Pallium emerged from their tents. They had made their homes here, but it was no substitute for their village. Now that the witch had been driven back, surely they would return to restore the town.

That was what Clover needed to do. He had no magic, and he had lost his sword. He couldn't fight for the wizard, not like the boy wanted him to. But he could rebuild his home.

True to their master's word, none of the wizard's soldiers gave Clover any trouble as he left the infirmary. The healers supplied him with a clean new uniform, but no one had found Kingfisher, and there was no sign of his clover pin. It was probably still lying somewhere on the battlefield, buried in the mud, and Clover felt a pang of sadness for its loss. It might be all he could keep of Qrow. But regret would not return the pin, and others had lost far worse. At least Clover could recover most of what he'd lost.

A few inquiries took him into the cool morning and to the tent that housed the farmhands. It was surrounded by those of the soldiers that had escaped the witch's armies. This part of the courtyard was quieter; the people here did not converse easily with each other, and there was something haunted in their eyes. Clover knew where that kind of aspect came from. Perhaps when the wizard gave up on Clover's magical ability, he'd allow Clover to help these people.

The farmhands were as glad to see Clover as he was to see them, but he was almost surprised to find that they were also eager to leave.

"Had enough of this place," Harriet said resolutely. "The farm has waited long enough."

They packed up the farmhands' tent and several days worth of provisions, but were less successful in collecting Ironwood. He'd deployed on a mission to clear the remains of the witch's encampment, and no one knew when he would return. As much as he wanted to see Ironwood, Clover was unwilling to remain in the wizard's castle any longer than he had to. They left a message for Ironwood with one of the soldiers and made for the gate. Clover had kept his eyes peeled for any sign of Qrow, but he was nowhere to be found. Still hoping to reconcile with the huntsman, Clover stopped to take a final glance back across the courtyard from the shadow of the arch. As he hesitated, there was a ringing shout from the top of the wall.

"Mr. Ebi! Wait!"

A young girl was waving down at him, her long red hair lifted by the breeze that crested the battlements.

"Wait!" she shouted again. "It's me! Penny Polendina!" She flipped nimbly over the edge of the walkway, scurrying down the wall like a squirrel and landing lightly on her feet, apparently oblivious to the crowd that had gathered to watch.   
  
"Please allow me to accompany you!" she said brightly. "I am patrolling!" 

Clover glanced at the castle guards for some sort of corroboration, but the two faunus at the gate were staring at Penny as if they'd never seen her before. Penny saluted them crisply, then marched through the arch, her long strides carrying her swiftly forward. Bemused, the farmhands followed after her.

"I have been doing a lot of patrols," Penny proclaimed. "I find them very invigorating!"

"I can see that," Clover said, picking up his pace to catch up with her. She'd already reached the dappled shade of the trees, and showed no signs of slowing down.

"Yes," Penny agreed. "After I warned the angry lady at the castle about the fire, she suggested I take up patrolling for any more danger!"

"And have you seen any?"

"Not yet! But I am constantly vigilant!"

And she looked it, her head swivelling back and forth to scan the forest every few paces. Clover kept his eyes open too - he told himself he was searching for possible signs of wayward Grimm soldiers, but he couldn't deny that a part of him hoped to catch sight of a black bird among the trees. 

There was nothing lurking in the forest as they crossed the Ash River, and once they had forded the rushing water, there was nowhere left to hide. The Emerald Forest had burned to the roots. A few resolute trunks were still standing, stripped of their bark and stark against the blue sky. But they were all that remained of the once proud forest. 

Penny seemed to remember the path to the farm, which was fortunate, as Clover certainly couldn't have found it amongst the crumbled remains of the trees. They walked in mournful silence through the grave of the Emerald Forest, following Penny until she reached the end of her apparently self-assigned patrol route. She bid them a sombre farewell and returned the way they'd come. Clover looked across the ash fields before them.

"Which way?" Harriet asked quietly. There was still no sign of the path, but Clover led the others in the direction they'd been traveling. The farm hadn't been far from the road. 

The pale disc of the sun inched higher in the sky, the day slowly warming. Although Clover had slept away most of his time indoors, his body seemed to know he'd been trapped inside too long. He was unusually aware of the sun on his skin, and he rolled up the sleeves of his tunic to drink it in, one small pleasure in the midst of desolation. 

The walk felt much longer without the shelter of the forest, but at long last Clover spotted the outline of an irregular set of ruins above the fallen tree trunks.

He wasn't the only one whose steps faltered as they drew closer - it was clear that none of the farmhands wanted to witness the pile of rubble that had once been their home. 

The destruction was even more complete than Clover had remembered. He had hoped that an outbuilding or two might have escaped unscathed, but the farm had been almost entirely razed. A few lonely fence posts were all that remained to mark the edges of the fields. 

Clover saw in others' faces the encompassing horror he had felt upon first waking to this sight. There was nothing he could say that would alleviate it - it was one thing to watch a building burn, another to confronted with the wreckage. He collected their packs and let them wander the ruins to search for any hint of their old lives. 

The foundation of the farmhouse was a gaping pit in the earth, half full of brackish water. Clover sat on the edge and tried not to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of the task before them. They would not rebuild the farm overnight. But they could begin clearing the rubble, and send away for lumber to construct the new buildings. Most of the crops had made it to the castle, and some of the animals would return. It would be a difficult winter, but in the spring they would be there to cultivate the new growth. And as the years passed, the forest would begin to heal.

But would Clover be there to see it?

The wizard, despite his boyish appearance, was not someone you said no to. Clover had a feeling that even if he rejected the wizard's training, he would not simply be allowed to live out his life on the farm.

And what was worse, he was no longer sure he even wanted to.

The witch's attack on Ironwood Farm had been a realization of Clover's worst nightmare. And yet he hadn't crumbled. Qrow's help had inspired him to face his fear, and the promise of Qrow in his future had given him the resilience to overcome it. Clover had gotten stronger, and he wasn't sure that just living on the farm could be enough anymore. The wizard had been right about one thing - there was more that Clover could do than remain on the farm. More he wanted to do. Qrow might have given up on himself, but Clover still believed he could convince the huntsman that he wasn't to blame for his actions under the witch's control. And if he could do that, maybe he could also convince Qrow that they could have some kind of future together. Clover loved Ironwood Farm, and the people who'd made it home, but the place he remembered was gone, and no amount of rebuilding would bring it back. If he wanted a home, he would have to construct himself.

It was a quiet afternoon as they set up the tents and dug a pit to store their small cache of food. 

It felt wrong to build a cookfire, not when the others were seeing the ruins for the first time. They ate their dinner cold and crammed into the tent in silence. Clover knew he was not the only one whose sleep was troubled. 

The next day was overcast, a chill breeze whistling across the scorched fields and lifting puffy clouds of ash. But despite the bleak weather, Clover felt more settled; it was time to get to work. The farmhands were a good team, and even if the task was heavy with grief, it was nothing they didn't know how to do. 

Elm had suggested that they start with a livestock barn, so they could get the cows and goats out of their cramped quarters in the wizard's castle. They spent the morning clearing a place to erect it. By unspoken agreement, they avoided the existing ruins, choosing a location further to the south. As they swept away the charcoal remains of the trees, Clover allowed himself to consider the question of where they'd find the supplies they needed for construction. Lumber would surely be in high demand, but it was the only material he'd used to build. Marrow had suggested using mudbrick, but the old wells had been caved in, and the stream that ran north of the farm was little more than a trickle. The only resources left for building were the stones that had formed the foundation of the main house, and so they gathered there for lunch.

As Vine rooted through their supplies, Harriet crossed her arms over her chest.

"No way," she said. "I am not eating any more cold rabbit."

"It's rabbit or nothing," Vine replied calmly.

"It wouldn't be, if we had a fire."

Marrow glanced nervously to the south. "But what if a Grimm soldier sees it?"

"Look around us!" Harriet said irritably. "If there was anyone around, we'd see them coming from miles off! A little fire won't hurt."

"Harriet!" Elm's voice was sharp, but she wasn't even looking at the other woman. Her gaze was fixed on Clover, her brow furrowed with concern. 

Clover wasn't sure what had Elm so worried. He certainly wasn't enthusiastic about starting a fire in the ashes of their home, but they were a long way from rebuilding, and the nights would keep getting colder. "It's alright," he said. "We'll need to cook something sooner or later."

Surprise flitted across Elm's face, gone before Clover could even be sure it was there. She turned and dug through their packs for the fuel they'd brought from the castle.

A hot lunch seemed to soothe Harriet's mood, and they spent the afternoon picking through the rubble for any salvageable building materials. As dusk fell, the clouds parted, and the light of sunset painted the ash fields red.

"It looks like hell," Elm said, as she and Clover carried the supper dishes to the stream.

"I've never seen anything like it," Clover agreed. "The winter will be hard."

Elm scooped some water from the stream into the small cooking pot, her eyes trained on the horizon. 

"Clover," she said quietly. "You're missing something."

Clover looked down at the stack of dishes in his hand, quickly counting up five bowls, and Elm gave a little huff of laughter. It was the first time he'd seen her laugh since they'd arrived.

"No, that's not what I meant. Maybe I used the wrong word. It just seems like your thoughts are somewhere else. At first we thought you were still in mourning for the farm, but that's not true, is it?"

"No," Clover replied. "Not that I don't miss the farm. I know Marrow is excited to rebuild, but I don't think he understands yet that it won't be the same. Nothing can bring it back."

Elm nodded thoughtfully.

"You don't want to stay."

"That's not it," Clover said. "Elm, the wizard thinks I have magical powers."

"You do?" Elm looked momentarily enchanted, then noticed his miserable expression. "But this isn't good news."

"He wants to train me. At the castle."

"And is that what you want?"

Clover shrugged. "I think he's wrong about the magic. But I also think that my opinion doesn't matter."

"But if you had a choice," Elm asked insistently, "what would you want to do?"

Clover leaned back against the streambank. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and darkness was falling fast.

"I wish I wanted to stay here," he said heavily. "I should want to stay. There's so much that needs to be done. But its never going to be home again and- and I think I'm ready for something more."

Elm frowned, piling the freshly scrubbed cutlery in the cookpot. "Is this about the huntsman? You...mentioned him, a few times. While you were asleep."

Clover's face heated at the thought of what exactly he might have said about Qrow, but he knew Elm would be too tactful to tell him.

"Maybe. When I met him- Elm, I love this place, but I hadn't realized how small my world had become. He made me feel like I could be more, like I could do more."

"You still chose to come here, with us."

"Qrow is- it's complicated," Clover said. "But even if he never wants to see me again, I can't just stay here and wait for the wizard to scoop me up. I can't do what he wants from me. But maybe there's another way I can fight the witch."

Elm shuddered. "You're braver than me. I couldn't face that again - falling away from my body, losing myself."

Clover put a hand on her shoulder.

"You aren't lost anymore. And I'm not going anywhere right now."

Elm stood, gathering the clean dishes. "But you will," she said sadly. And she walked back to the tent alone.

Clover stayed by the stream, counting pinprick stars until his eyelids started to droop. His sleep was restless, but the backbreaking work of disassembling the foundation kept his mind from wandering the next day. Cold rain fell in the afternoon, turning the ground to sucking mud, and they had to give up the work to huddle in the tent. But despite the weather, no one suggested going back to the castle. And the next day, their dedication was rewarded.

Harriet spotted the smudge on the horizon just after lunch. They agreed to leave one person on watch to see if it drew closer, and tension was high as they got back to work. It ratcheted higher still as the smudge grew larger, and Harriet and Marrow fought about whether they should return to the castle. But as the smudge started to take proper shape, it was obviously no desperate band of deserters.

An ox-towed wagon was rattling toward them across the wasteland, loaded high with fresh lumber. Marching at the head of the ox was Penny Polendina, her brilliant hair waving like a flag. And sitting in the driver's seat was Robyn Hill, the proprietor of Hilltop Ranch.

"Someone call for a barn-raising?" she shouted.

Clover couldn't help but laugh. His chest felt light; suddenly the bleak task before them seemed achievable.

"Yes!" he called back. 

Robyn lifted the reins she held and the ox came to a placid halt. She swung off the driver's bench to talk to Elm, and Clover saw that there was someone in the back of the wagon, keeping the lumber steady. He moved around to help unload - and came face to face with Ironwood.

For a moment, Clover couldn't do anything but stare. And then Ironwood had dropped out of the wagonbed and pulled him into a crushing embrace.

Clover sagged into it, swamped by a wave of relief. Ironwood squeezed him tighter, and Clover found his eyes filling with tears. He'd come back to the farm, but this was the home he'd been missing. 

When Ironwood pulled back, his eyes were shining.

"It's good to see you up," he said gruffly, and Clover let out a damp chuckle.

"Good to see you too, sir."

Ironwood nodded, clapping Clover on the shoulder. His hand was covered in new scars, gnarled white root systems that wound around his fingers.

"You've done good work here," he said, looking at the sorry pile of stones they'd extracted from the ruins.

"It will go easier with help," Clover admitted. "There...isn't much left."

"I was born in that house," Ironwood said. "I'm glad it can be part of our future." He glanced over at Clover, exhaustion weighing heavily on his features. "Clover - we should discuss that future." When Clover opened his mouth to reply, Ironwood forestalled him with a wave. "Now is not the time. We have work to do."

And they did - things went much faster with Robyn's supplies, but even with eight people, constructing a barn took time. Penny was more hindrance than help, darting around curiously to ask what everyone was doing, and Clover was almost glad when she departed for the castle. It was draining work, and they were all tired around the cookfire that night. But the barn was already framed, and Robyn promised another wagon of supplies was on its way. She'd been planning another stable before the attack, and had generously offered Ironwood the building materials when she'd heard what happened to the farm. They all took turns thanking her - she'd sped up their task considerably. Working with proper supplies had highlighted just how slowly they'd been going before.

Clover tried to catch Ironwood at dinner, but the farmer had risen early from the fire, and when he wandered over to the ruins of the main house, Clover knew better than to disturb his grief. They would have plenty of time to talk.

But as the days passed, Ironwood still didn't seem keen to discuss the future. Like the farmhands, he was channeling all of his energy into building the cattle barn. Before Clover knew it, he had run up against the wizard's deadline.

When the final morning dawned, he half expected the wizard to appear with the sun. There was no sign of the boy as they continued their work on the barn, and Clover began to allow himself to believe that perhaps the wizard had forgotten about him.

His illusions were shattered just before supper, when he saw a distant group of figures to the north. 

The wizard arrived with a retinue: Raven skulked at one shoulder, shooting poisonous looks at Clover, while Ruby walked at his other side, her scythe gleaming in the light of the setting sun. They approached slowly, waiting for Ironwood to invite them to the cookfire. They had brought food from the castle to share, and more to supplement the dwindling supplies at the farm. The wizard did not announce his presence - he let Raven take the lead in conversation with Ironwood, seeming to prefer unpacking their supplies with Ruby. But when Clover went to the stream for water, the boy tracked him with those hazel eyes, and there was a tension in his shoulders that did not relax until Clover returned.

After supper, they broke into smaller groups for conversation, and the pressure of the wizard's eyes on his back drove Clover toward the barn. The structure had been skeletal just days ago, but now only a few patches of roof were missing. As he admired their handiwork, he saw Ironwood doing the same.

"It won't be the farm I grew up on," Ironwood said, his tone pensive. "But it's good solid construction." He knocked a fist against one of the foundation posts, nodding approvingly as it held firm.

Clover leaned against the barn wall, breathing in the cedar smell of it. "There's a long way to go."

"We have a good team, here," Ironwood replied. "Ironwood Farm will thrive again." Even now, when the working day was done, his posture was impeccable as he glanced over at Clover. "But it will be hard," he admitted. "It will be difficult to find work for everyone, that first year."

There was something in his tone, some emotion Clover couldn't quite identify.

"Are you asking me to leave, sir?" he asked, and Ironwood's eyes widened slightly.

"Clover, I would never ask you to leave. I know how important the farm is to you." Ironwood looked toward the fire, crossing his arms across his chest. "But I did hear you had spoken with the wizard. I did not want you to feel trapped here."

"Sir I- he thinks I have magic, but he's wrong," Clover said, feeling an exhaustion that went beyond a hard day's work. "What I did in the tent - you saw it. It wasn't magic, it was just- just me."

"I did point out to him that if destroying sorcerous artifacts was all it took to demonstrate magical ability, then I too should fit the criteria," Ironwood said, flexing his scarred hand. "But Clover - I cannot deny that something strange happened in that tent. I was apart from my body, adrift - and then I was not. And I remember that you offered me guidance, although I cannot say how. The wizard may be able to provide answers." His gaze met Clover's. "Just know that whatever you decide, I am proud of you, son. None of us would have gotten out if it wasn't for you."

The warm feeling that settled in Clover's chest had nothing to do with the stew they'd had for dinner.

"Thank you, sir."

Ironwood nodded once more, then strode back to the fire. As he reached it, Clover saw the wizard glance away from his conversation with Vine and Raven, looking towards the barn. Clover turned away and pretended he hadn't noticed, glancing up at the wall as if appraising it once more. He hoped for any sort of excuse to avoid talking to the wizard, but he still wasn't expecting to catch sight of a flicker of movement from the roof.

Clover frowned; wooden shingles shouldn't flicker. If they weren't nailed down properly now, they'd rip away during the winter storms. He stepped into the cool shadows of the barn. It was utterly silent, too new to creak and settle as one of the older barns would have. 

They hadn't bothered with stairs yet, so Clover used the cross beams to pull himself up to the empty hayloft. A few faint patches of moonlight filtered through the remaining holes in the roof, but the loft was nearly as dark as the barn below. Clover kept a hand on the wall as he made his way to where he had seen the movement. As he approached, there was a flurry of motion, and something clattered through the rafters, glinting in the moonlight as it fell to the hayloft floor.

That certainly wasn't a shingle; Clover reached for the object just as something dived through the ceiling in pursuit. He pulled back and a crow dropped past his hand, talons outstretched to snatch what was unmistakably Clover's missing pin.

Clover froze, and the bird did too, beady black eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"Qrow?" Clover asked incredulously.

The crow gave a dispirited hop, and released the pin. When Clover made no move to grab it, the bird nudged it with his beak, sending it scraping across the cedar planks. He flapped his wings, darting toward a distant gap in the roof.

"Qrow!" Clover hissed. "Come back here!" 

He swiped up the pin and hastened after the bird, slithering through the hole and out onto the roof. He feared he would be too late, but to his relief, Qrow hadn't vanished into the night. He was sitting on the shingles in human form, his knees drawn up to his chest and his face illuminated by moonlight.

"I suppose you deserve to have your say," he said softly.

"Qrow, I've told you I don't blame you for what happened," Clover whispered, taking a seat beside the huntsman. "I looked for you! Why were you avoiding me?"

Qrow seemed shocked by his vehemence. 

"I assumed you wouldn't want to see me," he said. "And I needed time to think about what I'd done. But I couldn't leave without seeing you, one last time."

Clover felt as if he'd been dropped in icy water. "Leave? Where are you going?"

Qrow let his head tip back, looking up at the moon.

"Oz is keeping secrets," he murmured. "The things I've done for him- and he doesn't even trust me. I can't wait around just to see what else he's hiding - I have to find my own answers." He glanced back toward Clover. "But you don't have to worry - I won't be back again."

Clover reached for the huntsman's hand.

"Qrow, I don't want you to leave," he said fiercely. "What would it take to convince you that you're not responsible for what happened?"

This time, Qrow didn't pull away. 

"When you told me that you'd been captured by the witch before, I thought I understood what that meant," the huntsman said. "You said you'd done terrible things under her control, but it was easy for me to dismiss them. I've done terrible things in the wizard's service, and I have only myself to blame for them."

"We all have to come to terms with our choices," Clover replied. "But what happened in the witch's tent wasn't a choice. You don't have to carry it with you." He squeezed Qrow's hand. "Trust me - you'll feel lighter when you put it down."

Qrow clenched his jaw, his hand tensing in Clover's.

"If I put it down - I don't think I'll be able to pick it back up again," he admitted, his voice choked.

"Qrow," Clover said softly. "I would never ask you to." He tugged their joined hands, and pulled Qrow into a kiss.

At first, the huntsman was stiff with shock, and Clover was afraid he'd back away. But then Qrow melted into his embrace, clutching Clover tighter.

They stayed like that a long time, Clover holding Qrow close in the moonlight. The chatter drifting over from the campfire was fading, and even the wind had calmed. Clover felt fully relaxed for the first time since Qrow had slipped out of the castle infirmary.

But their peace did not last, and they both jumped when the barn door slammed.

"Mr. Ebi!" the wizard called. "I know you're up there!" 

He'd brought a torch with him, and Clover could see its light dancing crazily into the hayloft from the barn below.

"Are you going to go with him?" Qrow asked quietly.

"Of course not," Clover hissed.

And despite all they'd just shared, Qrow still seemed surprised.

"But I thought-" he began, before being interrupted by another shout.

"Mr. Ebi! Please come down!"

"Keep your voice down," Clover whispered urgently.

"He said he was going to train you," Qrow said.

"Qrow, I don't have any magic! What happens when he figures that out? You say he doesn't trust you anymore - why should I trust him?"

Beneath them, the barn door swung closed with a wooden thud. Clover peered over the peak of the roof, watching the wizard walk back to the fire.

"If I tell him about what I did in the tent," Clover said, "he'll realize that I didn't use any magic to get us out. I just got lucky."

Qrow watched him closely. "I don't exactly remember everything clearly," he said, his voice rough. "But are you sure it wasn't magic? Oz isn't usually wrong about this stuff."

Clover shook his head. "It wasn't me," he insisted. "It was-" He couldn't find the words, and started again. "When you put the crown on me, I think I- went somewhere." A tremor ran through Qrow's body, but Clover pushed onward. "I can't really remember it properly. But I wasn't in my body anymore; it was like I'd become a ghost, in a sea of other ghosts. And I thought I was going to be lost forever." The memories had a hazy, dream-like quality - the more Clover tried to recall them, the more they slipped away, sliding through his grasp like smoke. But the chase had stirred something in the recesses of his mind. "I met a woman," Clover said, his uncertainty almost making it a question. 

Qrow was still looking at him intently. "Not the witch, then."

"No," Clover said, suppressing a shudder. "Definitely not. No, she was like me - like us. She was a ghost." He looked at Qrow. "You don't remember being anywhere but the witch's tent?"

Qrow frowned. 

"I don't know what I remember. I remember being in the tent, and taking the crown and-" he looked away, and Clover pulled him closer. "But at the same time, it was like I was floating. Like I was drowning." He shivered under Clover's arm. "I was falling apart."

"We all were," Clover said. "I never would have saved anyone if not for the woman guiding me. I think- I think I must have gotten out before." He rubbed a hand across his chest. "She showed me the way." Clover frowned, trying to take hold of the elusive memory. "I think she thought I was you." Clover reached for his shoulder almost without thinking, but of course he wasn't wearing Qrow's cloak anymore. 

Qrow's expression was troubled.

"She spoke to you?"

Clover shook his head again. His thoughts were crowding in, smothering the memories._

"No," he said slowly. "No, she couldn't speak. She _showed_ me. Qrow, she saw your cloak and showed me your bird form, and- and something else," he finished lamely.

Qrow took Clover's hands in his, his red-eyed gaze more intense than Clover had ever seen it.

"Clover, I can count on one hand the number of people who know about my gift. _What else did she show you?_ "

Clover's memory felt fragile as spun sugar, crumbling as he tried to grasp it. But he knew he couldn't answer Qrow's question without being sure.

"Clover, please."

Clover closed his eyes. He tried to return to the ephemeral world he'd entered when Qrow had placed the crown upon his head. He felt the mist against his skin, the floor of black glass beneath his feet. And he saw the woman, fading into the mists. She opened her hand-

"A rose," Clover said, his eyes snapping open. "She showed me a rose."

Qrow's eyes were wide. Astonishment flickered across his face, followed swiftly by despair.

"She's still alive," he said, more to himself than Clover. "Still alive." 

"Qrow, who is she?"

Qrow scrubbed a hand across his face, the other clutching the peak of the roof.

"Raven and I, we used to be part of a team. With a man named Taiyang Xiao Long, and a woman named Summer Rose. But we were young, and cocky. We took on anything the wizard could throw at us, and he never hesitated to send us into danger. One day we went too deep, and Summer didn't make it out in time." He looked down at his hands. "The wizard told us she couldn't be saved - that she was either dead or under the witch's control. We never even looked for her." Anger cast a shadow over the huntsman's face. "I'm going to kill him," he growled, looking towards where the wizard sat by the dimming embers of the cookfire. "All this time, we could have gone back for her, and he never even told me that he knew of someone who'd escaped the witch's hold."

"Well now he doesn't have to," Clover said. "We know it's possible. I may not have used magic to escape the witch, but I've done it twice now, that must be good for something. And I couldn't have freed myself a second time without Summer. Let me help you free her."

"You'd do that for me?" Qrow asked. "Leave your home?"

"My home is gone," Clover said sadly. "And it was a good home, somewhere I thought I was safe. But that feeling kept me trapped there, and in the end it was no safer than anywhere else. Ironwood Farm will be rebuilt, and I hope I'm there to see it. But Qrow, if you're not there, it won't be the home I want."

Qrow smiled, and for once it seemed truly genuine.

"We should go now, then. If you're serious about not training with Oz, he won't take it well."

Clover's heart lurched to be leaving so soon, but he knew the huntsman was right. They sat on the roof until the wizard succumbed to the need for sleep and retreated into his tent. As Qrow took to the sky, Clover slid back into the loft, dropping down to the barn floor and making his way to the farmhands' tent.

He thought the rustling of the canvas quiet enough to go unnoticed, but as soon as he stepped through the flap, all four figures sat up.

"Is that Raven woman taking you back to the castle?" Elm whispered.

"No," Clover said softly. "I'm not going with them."

"But you are leaving," Vine observed, as Clover rolled up his bedroll.

"There's something I need to do, but I'll come back," Clover said, but the words felt insufficient.

"You will," Harriet said fiercely, seizing him in a tight hug. She pulled the bedroll out of Clover's hands and stuffed it into one of the packs.

"Promise?" Marrow asked, before diving in for a hug of his own.

"Promise," Clover whispered, as Elm draped herself over the two of them.

"You'll need this," Vine said, piling some of the salted rabbit into the bag. "Don't forget to fill your waterskins." Clover extricated himself from Marrow's embrace as Vine slid the pack onto his back. "Be well," the other man said, putting a hand on Clover's shoulder. "Return when you can."

"I will," Clover said quietly. "Thank you." He slipped out of the tent before he could think better of it, striding towards the ash fields that had once been the Emerald Forest. He had nearly reached the edge of the fading circle of firelight when a voice spoke behind him.

"He said you'd try to do a runner."

Clover turned - somehow he'd failed to notice Raven, where she sat in the shadow of the wizard's tent. His heart fell.

"Oz is never wrong," she continued, her voice subdued. She was still staring into the flames.

"I can't go with him," Clover said, and she grinned, her smile so much fiercer than Qrow's.

"Oh, I know," she replied. "I didn't say I'd stop you. Just make sure you keep my idiot brother safe."

At first, Clover didn't quite believe her, but she remained motionless as he stepped backward, keeping her eyes on the cookfire. When he was sure she couldn't have seen him even if she did look up, he turned away from the farm. The moon was setting, and the plain before him was dark. Traveling through it by night would be hazardous, but Clover had done stupider things for people he cared about.

There was a flash of movement overhead, and Clover ducked as something swooped over his head and landed in the field. When he lifted his head, he saw Qrow standing before him.

"Ready?" the huntsman asked, offering a hand.

"Ready." Clover said, and they walked into the night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel? lmk if you want one


End file.
